All in the Blood
by MyraRain223
Summary: A new Lazarus Pit has been discovered by a cult researching a serum to control others. The problem? No one has survived the test phase. Seeking someone who has been in the pits before, they target Damian Wayne for his relation to Ra's and Jason Todd for his miraculous resurrection- what will Batman do when his family is under siege? To include the whole family in later chapters.
1. Life's blood

**Hi guys. So I'm not even gonna try to come up with excuses now. Suffice it to say that I finally have free time and I have new stories ready to be written (and a few chapters to add to uncomplete stories too…) Here's just a start to a story I hope will be as interesting as my thoughts want it to be. This story has been hopping around in my head for a while and I figured it's about time I actually wrote it. Sorry if I'm a little rusty here. R and R appreciated ^_^**

CHAPTER 1: BIRTHPLACE

Gotham. The birthplace of heroes and villains alike. Always had been, always would be. Not for lack of trying on the part of a certain Bat. Atop a decrepit building in the center of Crime Alley, a man stood holding a cigarette and breathing deep as the fumes filtered toward the sky. He was tall, with the heavy muscles of a man who has seen active combat. His large fists wrap around a bottle of booze and he takes a moment to savor the crisp night air before taking a swig of the sharp brandy. He spit onto the uneven cement of the roof, wishing he could dispel the scent of human filth rolling over his nose.

His phone vibrated against his leg and he lifted the device out to bark a sharp "What?"

"It's time, Johnny." The disjointed voice replied, completely ignoring the irritation in the other man's voice. "Get your crew together and meet us at the docks."

Johnny made a noise deep in his throat. Anyone else would have taken it as mere annoyance, but the man on the other end of the line snorted and said, "Don't worry, you'll be able to rough him up a bit. The boss didn't say in what condition that he has to be in when we bring him, only that we get the job done."

A smile spread across Johnny's face, one dripping with menace. "Just so long as I get a good hit in, I'm good to go." With that, the phone slid out of his hand and Johnny took one last swig of his alcohol before stamping out the cigarette and heading down to the docks. This was going to be a damn good night; he could already tell.

…

Damian Wayne flew through the skies, unleashing grappling hook after grappling hook. The feeling of weightlessness left a smile on his face and a giddy feeling in his stomach. Damian had never expected to actually _enjoy_ working with his father, even as a child when he had dreamed up the visage of the stony patriarch. Back then, he'd envisioned a larger than life figure that would come for him, to take him away from the endless studies, training, and general discomfort of being the only biological male heir of Ra's Al Ghul. It had never happened, though. His mother had simply dropped him off as if to say that Damian wasn't worth enough to hold on to. And _that_ still hurt. Being with his father this last year had broken the boy's image. Now, when he thought of his father, Damian couldn't quite decide how to feel. Usually, the emotions drifted from impotent rage to something not quite approaching love. He supposed that was normal for a ten-year-old. Then again, he wasn't the average kid.

In this particular moment, however, he was locked in on the former.

Hot rage filled his belly, only intensifying the exhilaration of flight. This time, he would do it. He was going to run away and there was nothing his father could do about it. He was definitely keeping the Robin suite though. That was non-negotiable. Finally, Robin released one last grappling hook and landed neatly on an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town.

" _Damian, you can't just take off like that," Bruce had said._ " _If you act recklessly in the field again, I'm taking you off this case."_

 _Damian had sputtered with rage, fuming. This was_ his _case, not Bruce's. Damian had been the one to track the shipments. Damian had been the one to realize that something big was coming into Gotham. And it had been Damian to suggest the seedy bar as a place where the culprits congregated. "I took those men down, they were going to hurt that little girl!" He had screamed, uncaring that Alfred was staring at him disapprovingly from the sideline._

" _You went against a direct order, Damian." Bruce said just as angrily. "You don't ever do that again!"_

 _Damian lost it, he couldn't even stop the words if he'd wanted to, "What, do you think I'll go off and get myself killed like Todd?" He snapped. "Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm nothing like that brain-damaged gorilla."_

 _The air in the cave went deadly still._

 _Bruce paled several degrees and he looked down at his son with something dark and dangerous sparkling in his eyes. "Bedroom. Now." He ground out._

 _Damian had felt angry tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He started running for the stairs, screaming "I wish Mother had never forced me to meet you!"_

 _Damian didn't wait for a response, he just went to his room. From there, his emotions had boiled over the top. With no real outlet left for his anger, he looked to the window. "If he won't let me on the case, I'll just have to solve the case without him!" he had thought. He spared no hesitation._

 _When Bruce came to look for him an hour later, Damian had been long gone._

Now, standing atop a high-rise just beside the Gotham City docks, Damian spotted his targets. There was a large ship in port, one that Damian was sure was not registered to be there. Men were unloading the contents of the ship's hull as many others stood by, aiming guns in every direction – clearly expecting the fabled Batman to come and ruin their night. Damian smiled. This time, it would be Robin to come to the rescue. He shot off another grappling hook and made his way closer to the ship.

Many of the men were congregating in a large, mostly unfinished warehouse. Damian snuck closer and landed atop the warehouse, peaking through the shattered remains of a skylight. This particular part of the docks had lain unfinished for years. Most of the wood had rotted away while Gotham's leadership bickered over how best to restore it. Plans had been made and then thoroughly dismissed several times, over several political careers. Every time a new action to finish the east side of the port, a rival faction would kill it in infancy, an action usually supported by Gotham's underground.

Damian let out a -Tt- and moved into the building, never even suspecting that this was exactly what the men below had been waiting for.

…

When the men had first started to unload their shipment, the Red Hood had been informed. No one made a move on his turf without Jason Todd becoming aware of it. And it wasn't pretty when that happened. He'd been hearing rumors of a small group on the rise in Gotham, but had no solid proof until tonight. Now, looking at the organization of the men below, Jason could only conclude that this was no small venture. The men were unloading wooden boxes in single file before returning to the ship for more. Looking closely, he knew something was off. It was too perfect. Too careful. And each of the men carrying boxes seemed to be under no strain, despite the seemingly cumbersome size of the boxes. That meant they were likely empty. And why on earth would men be going to such lengths to hide a shipment of boxes with nothing inside. And why was it that each man also had a noticeable bulge in their jacket pockets.

So, each of the men were well armed, carrying empty boxes into a warehouse that was unfinished and likely no safeguard for any real goods. _I smell a rat,_ Jason thought grimly.

That was when he saw a little flash of red and green passing through a broken skylight. Jason waited for a moment, expecting to see the dark and imposing figure of Batman following the little imp. The thought made Jason shiver, and not from the cold. His heart picked up, and Jason prepared to leave. Whatever this operation had been, it was surely about to be ended by the Dark Knight.

But Batman wasn't there. No dark figure appeared. Instead, gunfire lit the night sky, turning the dark waters of the port a startling red as the light came and went with the boom of battle. Jason rose swiftly, tapping the communication outlet and switching the channel to Oracle. "Yo, Babs, you there?"

I flurry of bullets came his way and Jason hastily ducked to avoid being shot. "Jason? How did you get this frequency?" Oracle's voice came through clear and strong, if a bit wary.

He couldn't help but smile at that, despite the battle going on around him. Jason lifted his guns from their holsters and began returning fire. "No time, Babs. Where is Big B?"

"He's unavailable." She said with an edge in her voice. "Why are you looking for Batman?"

Jason ducked down just in time to hear the whizzing of a bullet far too close for comfort. "Because I want to throw him a party, Barbara," he said in the sweetest voice he could manage. "Seriously, though, little bird is in the middle of a warzone over here and I don't have a visual on Bats."

Barbara sucked in her breath quickly, confirming his suspicions. So, the little demon had run off alone after all. Horse shit.

"Stay where you are, I'm going to track you." Her voice brooked no argument, sounding for all the world like Bruce in that moment.

Good thing Jason had had so much practice disobeying that voice. "The hell you are, there's no time. I'm going in after the little hellspawn."

"Jason-" He cut off the transmission and moved.

Jason made his way closer to the warehouse, weaving between bullets in a way that wouldn't ever be considered graceful, but it got the job done. Just as he reached the doors to the warehouse he heard a muffled cry of pain and the bullets suddenly stopped flying. _Damian_ , Jason identified. The sound was coming from above him. Jason barreled his way inside the building, rolling behind a group of boxes. From there, he could see the men cornering the little bastard.

The boy was shot. Blood pumped from a wound in his shoulder and the men were raising pipes and – and was that a crowbar? Seeing it raised in the air, something in Jason broke. He was sure he heard it, like an audible snap. Something about seeing a group of large men standing over a boy in _that_ outfit – his outfit, really – made him flare to life. Jason roared a warning to the men, making them turn away from their prize. His guns flared to life, but Jason didn't slow down. He was up the stairs and on the landing in seconds, twisting out of the path of bullets faster than he could think about it. A row of windows lined the warehouse and Jason herded the men toward them, forcing them away from Damian. Finally, when he stood in front of the boy he crouched down, forming a barrier between what remained of the thugs and Robin.

"Get out of here, kid." Jason Said quietly, venomously.

The boy looked for a moment like he was ready to argue, but then grimaced in pain and got up slowly. Jason gave him a shove in the direction of the skylight he had first entered through. Damian didn't need to be told twice, he booked it, trailing blood behind him.

"Stop him!" one of the larger men yelled, pointing at the retreating Robin.

Jason let out a warning growl and the men hesitated. He pulled the triggers on his guns, but they let out a useless click. _Out of ammo_. he cursed and then he ran directly at the group of men, determined to keep them away from Damian long enough for the boy to escape. He was so focused on his task that he didn't even see the large, ape-like form of Johnny Bondanella rushing toward him from the side until it was too late.

Together, he and Johnny crashed through the window of the warehouse and plummeted to the ground below.

…

When Jason came to, he was staring at the purple-blue sky of Gotham above. Pain blossomed from his abdomen and Jason struggled to get a look at his injuries. There was definitely glass crushed into his back, he could feel one particularly long shard pricking his shoulder. His limbs were unresponsive and Jason was sure that something was broken. But what caught his eye first was the three inches of solid rebar skewering him to the spot. As he looked at the metal in shock, the pain intensified, as though his brain was just now catching up to what his body was going through. He coughed wetly, tasting the copper of blood in his mouth.

"Fuck." He gasped, trying to force his mind to work past the agony to figure out his next move.

That was when he heard a groan beside him. Jason turned his head and saw the dark eyes of Johnny.

Johnny, for his part, looked mildly startled to find himself on the ground. He had tackled the Red Hood, thinking only of stopping the man's interference. He hadn't intended to fly through the glass _with_ him. Nonetheless, he gasped as he pulled a piece of glass from his arm. Then, his murderous gaze swung back to the vigilante. "You!" he screamed in rage, getting up off the ground and standing over him menacingly. Without hesitating, Johnny took hold of the red helmet and pulled.

The motion jarred Jason, moving the rebar and pushing fresh blood from the wound. Jason let out a startled hiss of pain before Johnny finally hit the release and pulled the helmet away. Jason was still wearing his domino mask, but the rush of cool Gotham air on his cheeks sent a thrill of fear racing through him.

Johnny stared at the masked eyes of the Red Hood and then laughed. The sound filled Jason with dread, forcing his mind back to a time when he had been so similarly helpless. And the sound of maniacal laughter had filled the air then too. Jason had to actively control his breathing, even when his brain and body screamed in wild terror. Blood slipped from his mouth as he struggled to get up, flinging his arms and legs wildly to just _get away_. It was futile, Jason knew, but something had gotten loose in his mind and rationality went straight out the door. Johnny chuckled once more, darkly, before hunkering down and putting his meaty fists around Jason's throat.

"You remember me, Hood?" Johnny asked, as tears pricked in Jason's eyes. "You attacked my boss's shipment a few months back, left me without work or money." His eyes gleamed with manic joy. "Time for payback!"

Jason shook his head, his lungs screaming for air. His eye caught on the shard of glass that the man had so callously discarded earlier. Without pausing to think about it, Jason reached for the shard, took hold of it, and then jammed it directly into Johnny's eye.

Johnny screamed, hands falling away from Jason to grasp at the shard still lodged into his left eye. Jason took a gulp of air, gasping and coughing to regain his breath. The rebar kept shifting as he moved, and by the time he stopped coughing, there was agony shooting throughout his entire body. Something deep inside him was screaming at him to move, to get away before the man recovered enough to finish him off. Jason searched left and right again, but nothing stood out. Nothing he could use to get off the blasted rebar. Jason reached for the edge of a nearby dumpster, realizing at once that there was an indent in the dumpster. He used the crevice in the bottom to maneuver himself upward. He gasped and fell back as blood spurted from the wound. Jason let out a strangled cry and lay there for a moment until the darkness creeping in on his vision started to fade. Johnny was still working up the courage to pull the shard from his eye, screaming to the heavens. Jason tried again. This time he pulled himself off, crying out as the angle of removal tore fresh blood from the wound. Jason flipped to his side as soon as he was free, laying there just to catch his breath.

Jason was a survivor, and he had to keep telling himself that he'd had worse. It didn't help much as his vision faded and black dots danced before him. It was a few minutes before he realized there were voices around him. He opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – only to blink in fear as he realized he was surrounded. The thugs from inside had made it out back and formed a loose circle around him. Some were helping Johnny, trying to tend to the gaping wound where once his eye had been.

Jason swallowed audibly, trying to force down the nausea that took over in the absence of the rebar. Finally, his mind caught up with what the men were saying.

"He has the blood…"

"Boss wants….

"Grab his ankles…. Bring him back…."

At this last part, the men grabbed hold of him and started dragging him. Jason let out a cry of pain as the glass in his back was ground into his skin and the raw edges of his wounds were scraped open. He saw a shiny black car waiting at the end of the alley and Jason tried weakly to push back against their grip.

The last thing he saw was the flash of metal coming at his face.

Dimly, he thought, _this is what he got for trying to help._

…

When Oracle had called him, Batman was already on the move. He had been scouring the city in a vain attempt to find Robin. All the while, images of the last time he had been too late flashing in his mind painfully.

 _My son…_

But the part of him that was the Bat rebelled. _A soldier, a casualty of war._ Batman thought this so fiercely that Bruce was pushed aside, burying himself deep within his alter-ego. If Jas- _Damian_ was going to survive, he needed Batman, not Bruce Wayne. And right now, Bruce Wayne would do anything to avoid that images floating in his mind.

Suddenly, his com link flared to life and a small, childish voice called his name. "F-Father?"

Bruce came out at once, Reaching automatically for his receiver. "Damian, where are you?" He all but screamed at the boy.

He could practically hear the boy flinch. "I'm – I'm by the docks…" He said finally, and if it was possible, Bruce's grip on the wheel tightened. "I – Todd saved me." This he said with shock, like he didn't even believe himself.

Jason. Bruce's heart squeezed at the mention of his wayward son. Batman clamped down, reminding himself that this meant there had been bloodshed – Jason didn't play by Batman's rules. He had to admit that a part of him didn't even care.

When Batman left the car to make his approach on foot, he met with his son in the sky. He took Damian into his arms, holding him close. Damian squirmed and winced as Batman's hands moved over his injured shoulder. "You're hurt." Batman said curtly, not quite a reprimand.

Damian nodded without meeting his eyes.

Batman nodded as well, turning the boy around and sending him toward the Batmobile. "Where is Red Hood, didn't he follow you?" he asked, his expression blessedly hidden from his son.

Damian went still, turning to look at the horizon, as though he expected Jason to appear out of thin air. "N-no. He…" Damian hesitated, "He told me to run, so I ran."

Bruce Wayne felt terror grip his heart. He set the boy down in the car and then he was shooting off toward the way Damian had come. He couldn't even recall which ways he turned, but when he arrived at the warehouse, he felt just as he had all those years ago when approaching a different warehouse.

As he came upon the building, a black car raced toward him. Batman rolled out of the way, just as the car came upon him. Bullets rained down on his position and He was forced to spin farther and farther from the car. He threw a tracker onto the car haphazardly, before turning to deal with the thugs who had dared to harm his children.

Batman rose from the shadows and wrought havoc on their ranks, obliterating their resolve and fastening them with wire to keep them from fleeing. Only once that was done and all the thugs had been relieved of their weapons did he begin his real investigation. He dragged one of the smaller of the men to the top of the warehouse. Dangling the man over the edge, he spoke in a voice so low and threatening that the man instantly stopped squirming. Like a rat that freezes in the presence of a snake, the could only stare with open terror into the pitiless eyes of the cowl.

"Where is the Hood?" He asked, mercilessly letting the man drop a few feet to scare him.

"He- he's gone!" The man sputtered, trembling with fear.

Batman growled a warning and grabbed hold of the man's face. "What do you mean, gone?"

"We handed him over to the boss! He was in the car that just bolted out of here!"

Bruce Wayne cried out triumphantly from under the cowl, ready to race after the escaping vehicle. But Batman wasn't done yet. He shook the man again, eliciting a scream of fear. "Who is your boss, what does he want with the Hood?" His nerves were frayed and there may have been a slight tremble in his hands as he held the thug.

The man yelped again and held his hands up, "I don't know his name, they never told us. But they said…" he gulped and Batman shook him harder until he continued. "They said they wanted his blood..."

"His blood? What does that mean?" Batman asked, angrily, dropping the man another foot.

"I don't know! They wanted to test some kind of new drug, but no one has survived the process yet. They wanted the kid, but said they would settle for the bigger one. He… he was pretty beat up before we handed him over though."

Batman's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'beat up'?"

The man didn't meet those dark eyes, instead he said, "He fell. Got hit pretty bad with glass. Then… Well, down there." The man gestured hopelessly down to the alley below where Batman spotted a pool of blood mingling among the trash.

 _Jason_. The name repeated itself in his mind, fear and terror welling up even as he withdrew from the roof. He dialed the police to clean up the thugs and then got on the com to Oracle. He would find his son, one way or another.

…


	2. Gone

**Ok! Another chapter down. So, I'm kind of operating under the new 52/older comics now. I'm almost finished with the next update for Lengths of Depravity and that should be posted by tonight for anyone out there that's still waiting for that ^.^" In any case, read and review plz!**

 **Also, a special thanks to Jasminetiger for keeping on top of me for another update!**

 **Chapter 2**

"He's not ready to listen." The man said, prodding at their newest test subject. The boy was still unconscious and they were still working on healing up his wounds in the meantime. This was, in many ways, a test all its own. The boy was healing at a phenomenal rate, not quite on par with a dip in a Lazarus Pit, but quicker than the average human. That was good, it meant that they had chosen well – there was enough of the chemical properties from the Pit left in this Jason Todd to be of use to them. Still, the serum had never worked on any of the boy's predecessors and there was still some speculation as to whether the healing properties within him would even help with that. It may have been better to get the little one, the one with the genetic component that they had been searching for. Additionally, the little one would be much easier to manipulate. But, as his colleague had so helpfully pointed out, that boy was now beyond their reach. "It's a shame that the younger one could not be recovered," he continued.

"This one will have to do." Dr. Rice said to him. She was a tall woman, and she wore the white lab coat of a medical professional, but she was as cold-blooded as they came. When they had first met, she had been working on genetic manipulation in metahumans. The only problem was that none of the metahumans in her trials had been willing participants.

She poked a finger into the wound in the boy's abdomen, eliciting a pained groan from Jason. "He responds to pain. We'll have to use that to manipulate him," She looked up at her partner, and what he saw in her eyes scared him. "Have you completed your research?"

He couldn't make himself look at the boy as he spoke. "Yes. His name is Jason Todd. I've been speaking with various sources about his background. The official story was that he died while on a trip abroad in Europe, but of course we know better."

"How is our patient doing?" The entrance of their benefactor made the man jump. He was tall, dark skinned, and very, _very_ dangerous.

"My lord, he is still in and out of consciousness." The man moved forward at that and clasped the boy's chin between thumb and forefinger.

"He was injured, but not badly. He should be recovered by now. Transfuse some of the serum. We will ease him into our little experiment."

"Yes, Mr. Al Ghul."

…

"Alfred, make the call."

"The call, sir?"

"The call, Alfred. And… prep the med bay." Bruce's voice was shaky, even to his own ears. His father figure must have sensed his apprehension because there were no other questions as he ended the transmission.

Then, over the radio, he heard Alfred say: "To all bats and birds, this is Agent A, requesting your assistance. Contact the Batcave immediately, we… we need your help."

It took only twenty-five minutes to reach the cave, more than half of what it should have taken at the speed limit. Once parked, Bruce hopped out of the Batmobile to rush around and lift his youngest from the passenger seat. The boy was injured worse than he had originally thought and had lost consciousness along the way. Alfred was already there, standing by stoically as he carried his son to the medical bay.

"He's been shot." Bruce said as he pulled the cowl from his face. Alfred was there in an instant, having already donned the medical gear to extract the bullet and patch the boy up. Bruce took only a moment to run his fingers through the sweat and blood streaked hair of his child before turning abruptly toward the computer. Once he arrived he saw the blinking red of a transmission coming through. He clicked the key to patch it through.

Dick's clearly worried face came through the line. "What's going on, Bruce?"

The man in question ran a shaky hand through his hair before responding. "Damian has been shot." He waited a moment for that to sink in before continuing with, "And the Red Hood is missing."

He watched as Dick's face went from worry to fear to righteous anger in a matter of seconds before the younger man finally responded. "Is Damian…?"

Bruce chanced a glance back at the medical bay where Alfred had drawn the curtains. "It was a shoulder wound," was all he said on the matter.

"How could he…" Dick let out a frustrated and angry growl. "I'm coming to Gotham tonight. We'll track that bastard down and send him straight back to Arkham."

Bruce shook his head immediately. "No, you misunderstand. It appears that the Hood was the one to rescue Robin. And now he's been taken by the same people who did this to Damian."

Dick's face fell and though he hadn't seen the look on this youth for many years, Bruce recognized shame when he saw it. "He…He saved him?"

"So it would seem. I don't know much about what happened, we will have to wait for Damian to wake up for more answers. But, what I do know is that Jason was injured before he was taken."

"Tell me everything," Dick said apprehensively.

Before Bruce could even begin the story, the transmission indicator blinked and both Barbara and Tim came online. "I need you all to get to the cave as soon as possible. We… We have a situation."

When all three nodded the affirmative, Bruce severed the connection. He leaned back in his chair and curled his fingers over the keys. He accessed the surveillance footage around the docks, but because of the dilapidated status of the warehouse, there wasn't much footage available. All that he could find was grainy scenes of a man with a red hood entering the building. Nothing else was available from the angle of the camera. He sighed deeply. Could it even be possible that his wayward son had done this? Had he saved Damian's life? And what was all of this about experiments? If the people who had taken the young man had wanted something to do with his blood, then it had to have something to do with the Lazarus Pits. It was the only plausible link between both Jason and Damian – Jason for his resurrection from the pools and Damian for his genetic connection to them. Really, there was only one thing that was absolute in this case.

Whoever had deigned to take his sons away from him would pay, and pay dearly.

…

The first thing that he registered was the searing pain in his arm. It flowed upwards and soon spread throughout his body so that he felt as though every nerve ending was on fire. He could barely register where he had been impaled by the rebar before the whole area was engulfed in flames. He cried out and tried to move, but his limbs were too heavy to budge. There were voices filtering into his consciousness, but nothing that he could understand. It sounded like Arabic, but he couldn't be sure past the fog taking over his mind. When he finally worked up the courage to open his eyes, he saw nothing but white. There was a light shining in his face, so bright that he had to close them quickly as dots danced behind the lids and the pain receded. A hush fell over the room.

"Jason Todd, is it?" A heavily accented voice asked. She didn't wait for a reply before going on. "Welcome back to the world of the living, young man."

Jason's tongue felt swollen in his mouth and he tried repeatedly to swallow and speak to no avail.

"Don't say anything just yet. You've lost quite a bit of blood, Mr. Todd." She clicked her tongue at him and he groaned. "You should be nice and healed up within the hour. Though I assure you the process will be quite painful."

Even as she spoke the burning sensation in his belly intensified and Jason couldn't help but let out a startled gasp of pain. He could actually _feel_ the blood and skin knitting itself back together and each time it felt like ripping off a scab.

"Don't worry, boy. It won't last long." She said and he could hear the smile in her voice. "When you are done healing we will begin with the next stage of testing. I really do hope you survive, it will be such a waste to lose another pretty face."

Jason groaned again in time with the next throb of pain. He swallowed again and tried to speak, but again was thwarted by the cotton sensation in his mouth.

"Ah, there you are. It looks like you are healing nicely." He felt fingers probing the wound and tried feebly to brush them away. "Dr. Hanson, if you would administer the second dose."

Jason listened as the heavy footsteps of the man who must have been Dr. Hanson approached. He felt the jabbing of a needle in his arm and Jason could do nothing but try to squirm away as a wave of ice-cold fire swam through his veins. His time, when Jason opened his mouth, it was only to let loose a scream. The fire in his belly had been nothing compared to this and Jason had trouble just holding on to conscious thought. He screamed again as the obliterating agony filled his lungs and traveled up to his brain. It felt like dying, like his lungs were starved for air and his skin was burning in the heat. He had a sudden flashback of that fateful day in the warehouse, when he had been burned alive. The cause of death then had been asphyxiation – but only after about a third of his body had been burned to hell. He closed his eyes more tightly than before as tears escaped from the corners.

"Mr. Todd, please do remember this pain. It will be there again should you ever disobey an order." The woman said.

It was the last clear sentence that went through his mind before blessed darkness finally overcame him.

…

"So, let me get this straight. We are here because this kid ran off on his own," Tim gestured at Damian who was sleeping soundly in the medbay, "and then that bad apple paid the price." He gestured at the frozen image of the Red Hood on the screen of the Batcomputer.

Bruce nodded the affirmative and Tim groaned. "Great, this is just peachy."

Tim had arrived not twenty minutes after he had received the call. While the rest of the family had pointedly ignored or straight up bashed their errant brother, Tim had made the time to get to know him. There was nothing more shocking than learning that the man who had once shot him in the chest was actually an OK guy. Tim had done a lot of research in mental illness since Jason's ungodly return and he'd learned a lot. Jason was a classic case of PTSD and even though he was coming out of it now didn't mean he hadn't been in the throes of it when he had first returned. Now, as Jason ran around as the gunslinging anti-hero, he did so while wearing the symbol of the bat. No matter how often he claimed it was just "for irony" he couldn't fool Tim. Jason had been down right _civil_ with him at their little breakfast dates and had been a solid detective when even Tim had been stumped. Jason had grown up fending for himself on the streets of Gotham and like it or not that could change a person. He brought to the table a whole new perspective that sometimes not even the Batman could see. And Tim liked him.

Liked him enough to even call him "brother" when he wasn't looking.

"So, what do we do? Do you have any leads?" Dick asked, looking from Tim to Bruce and back again.

"I might." It was just then that Barbara came on screen. She had a grim look on her face as she stared first at Dick and then at Bruce and Tim. "I was tracking Jason from the moment he set foot in that warehouse." She began typing away at her screen before an overview map of Gotham appeared on screen. There was a flashing red dot located just where the warehouse district ended. "He started out here and then moved east toward Crime Alley." The red dot moved until it was just where she said it would be. "The signal is lost right about… here." The dot moved steadily until it was just on the outskirts of Crime Alley, heading North.

"So, either that's where they stopped or that's when they destroyed the tracker." Dick said quietly as he studied the map.

Barbara nodded. "Either that or they have something blocking the signal."

Time nodded and took a closer look. "I don't know if it's relevant or not, but the signal goes offline right around Jason's usual safe house. He said he'd been watching a group that had just moved into Gotham through the ports."

Bruce's eyes narrowed at his information, but it was Dick that answered first. "And how exactly do you know what cases he's been working on, Timmy?"

Tim rolled his eyes, though the Domino hampered the dramatic effect. "He's my brother too, Dick."

"He shot you." Dick said incredulously.

"Yeah he did. But he's never let me down since, which is more than I can say for _either_ of you." The words had no real heat behind them, but Dick and Bruce flinched as though he had struck them. Yeah. They had earned that one after the whole fake death plot that their brother had hidden from them. Either way, Dick was very quiet now, mostly intent on looking at his shoes. Bruce was doing a pretty good job of avoiding eye contact too.

Barbara cleared her throat loudly so that all three sets f eyes were now back on the screen. "I'm not going to touch that issue. I _will_ be looking into ways to boost the signal. If they have some kind of dampening field over him, I might just be able to poke through it. In the meantime, I suggest you look into the car that took him away from the scene. I believe Bruce got a partial plate."

"I did," Bruce said. Breaking out of the awkward silence that had settled over them. He pulled up an image of the car from the grainy footage he had accessed. It was nowhere close enough to make out any real features, but with a zoom you could just make out the number '468' but the rest was unintelligible because of the angle. "I believe that it's a 1974 Cadilac, but there are plenty in the city."

Tim sighed and moved closer to the screen. "Babs, can you clear this footage up any?"

He sighed again when she shook her head sadly. "Well, let me see here." He sat down at the computer and started to type in codes. In seconds he was into the mainframe for GCPD's Traffic Control. Another minute and he had written up an algorithm to track down the partial plate. There were only ten cars local to Gotham that fit the description of the car Bruce had seen. Two were owned by criminals recently arrested on drug charges. He eliminated them off of the list. Tim analyzed the addresses and mapped out the locations of the remaining car owners. Only two were located around Crime Alley. And one had just recently been reported stolen. He pulled up the specs on that car and smiled as he did so.

"I think we found our car. Full plate number is '468XHI' and it was reported stolen about two and a half blocks from where Jason's transmitter went offline." He uploaded the information to the Bat's cowl and Bruce nodded before heading to the car.

"What should I do?" Dick asked, all business.

Tim shook his head. "I'm going to look through the traffic footage for the city and see if we can track down where Jason's been taken. There's nothing else to do besides hurry up and wait."

Alfred cleared his throat behind them and both brothers turned to look at the man who had been like a grandfather to them since the beginning. "I suggest, Master Dick, that you check on Master Damian, he should be coming awake anytime soon. Perhaps he can give us all more information on who attacked him."

Dick nodded mechanically and moved to follow the old man to the medbay. Tim took a long breath and then let it out. He turned to look back at the screen after Dick and Alfred disappeared behind the curtains.

"Where are you, Jason?" He asked. Tim chanced a glance over to the display case where Jason's old uniform still hung. He let a ripple of sadness radiate in him before turning back to the computer and continuing his search for the wayward bird.

 **So… that's the end of chapter two. Kind of a cliffhanger there… As with all my works on here, I do not have a beta so I apologize for any spelling/grammatical issues, I kind of let me muse lead me.**

 **As always, please read and review 8)**


	3. The Devil's not into Details

**Ok. I would like to take a minute here to respond to a review left to me by a guest. Thank you for the feedback! First:** **Asphyxiation can take place due to smoke inhalation. On top of that, he was also under heavy debris when Bats finally found him, which wasn't immediate btw, which can also decrease the amount of air that Jason was able to take in – both equal death. Also, as for Tim and Jason's relationship, I like to use the information from the New 52 – where Tim and Jason treat one another as brothers and canonically have breakfast together. I'm not crystal clear on the cannon for New 52 as to how much of the past is included, but I do believe there was a reference to Jason shooting Tim, but Tim forgiving him in the breakfast issue (Outlaws #8?). I'll have to double-check that. I think he just vaguely says "I wasn't the nicest" or something.**

 **To your comment: "Consider if you really want and need to make your villains Arabic speakers or if you want to recognize one of the many other ethnic groups that are known for producing terrorists." First, Ra's Al Ghul is canonically Arabic, as described in** _ **Birth of the Demon.**_ **I would also like to note that his name literally means "Head of the demon"** _ **in Arabic**_ **. Jason overhears Arabic as Ra's is speaking with League associates, who would likely speak Arabic.** **You are right in saying that Talia is canonically Chinese and Arabic, this has been confirmed several times, but I haven't introduced Talia yet. Ra's has been alive for 600 years, give or take, and he has learned several languages canonically, but the League is still based in a place called Eth Alth'eban – which is vaguely, canonically located in the Arabian Peninsula.**

 **I encourage you, whoever you might be, to make an account on this website and send me a PM. I'm always down for a discussion of the comics and I hope I've given you some information that you can go ahead and look into. Offer goes to anyone on here, I love getting PMs and reviews, especially if you note a problem in the fic – I can't fix it or clarify it if I don't know about it! Thanks, super friends!**

 **Anywho – here's the next chapter!**

 **Chapter 3: The Devil's not into Details**

Jason wakes to a state of delirium. Pressure is building behind his eyes and he can feel the trickle of sweat running down his forehead. Wave upon wave of weariness wracks through him and every movement sends dizziness spiraling through him. He feels overheated – like his body is reacting to a particularly nasty strain of the flu. Jason can vaguely remember feeling half this bad the last time he had been sick, back when Bruce had still stood out as his father figure.

Jason groans as he opens his eyes. The room is dark, very much unlike the room from before. The air he breathes is stale and humid, almost making him gag on intake. _Come on, Jay, look for details._ The words spring into his mind, unbidden. They aren't his, they are from Bruce – from a time when Jason had cared about the older man's words. Jason waited for some of the dizziness to dissipate before forcing himself to look around. There is reinforced glass immediately before him, and the walls of what looks to be a cave behind him. It is strangely reminiscent of the cells that Batman keeps below the manor. He can feel his hair stand on end as he reaches toward the glass and knows that it must be electrified. As he rolls onto his back a fresh wave of agony races through his blood. Sweat drips to the floor below, making an unsettling plop as it hits the ground.

"His temperature is reaching 107 degrees." A man notes, as casually as though he is commenting on the weather. The sound of the words hurts his ears, like everything has been dialed up along with his temperature.

"None of the others survived this stage, correct Doctor?" Jason dully notes that the voice belongs to Ra's Al Ghul. He makes a futile effort to lift himself off the ground, but only manages to lift his head weakly as he turns over again.

"What- what have you done to me?" The words are slurred and slow coming out of his mouth. When Jason manages to bring his eyes up, their faces and features are blurry. He can make out only vague colors of green and white.

"No, my lord. Their brains liquefied about two hours into the process." The doctor responds, completely ignoring Jason's comment.

"It may be the advanced healing properties the boy still possesses from his first trip into the Pits." Another voice added to the mix, this one heavily accented. She holds a clipboard in her hands and is writing something as she speaks.

"He's progressing rather quickly, isn't he?" Ra's asks.

"Indeed." The woman responds. She moves closer to the cell and touches the pad at the edge of the cell. She stands there for a few minutes before backing away. The glass before him is raised and the woman steps inside with him. Her fingers feel like ice as she grips his chin and forcibly turns his head left and then right. "You made a good decision, my lord."

Jason can feel his muscles shaking with fatigue as he struggles to hold his head up. Finally, he groans in pain as the doctor releases him and his head hits the ground. She makes her way out of the cell and the glass lowers behind her.

The male doctor clears his throat. "If my calculations are correct he should be moving on to the next stage in the next few hours or so."

"Update me on his progress by the hour. I want to know the moment there is a change."

"Yes, my lord," The two doctors answer in unison.

There is the sound of a gate opening and then closing before Jason even realizes that his eyes have slipped closed. The darkness is far more welcoming than the light. In those last few moments before oblivion takes hold, Jason finds his mind wandering back to the manor. Damian's face flashes before his mind and he wonders if the boy made it home ok. If Alfred is sitting at home making dinner (breakfast? Lunch? What time even is it?). He wonders if Bruce is even looking for him. It would be a miracle if he even cared anymore.

"This will only sting for a moment." And suddenly the male doctor from before is standing before him. Jason forces his gaze to meet the doctor's as he raises a syringe to his arm. The liquid inside is green-blue and the very sight of it has Jason caught in the intense memories he has of the Lazarus Pit. Flashes of pain and madness send a current of willpower surging through Jason and he manages to back away, just as the needle touches his arm.

"No!" A cry is torn from his throat as the doctor pushes down the plunger and the now-familiar agony of the serum races through his blood.

The last image that shoots through his mind is of Bruce, and how much Jason hopes that he won't have to wake up next time.

…

The license plates are a dead end. As Bruce returns to the Batcave, he all but throws the cowl back away from his face. He sees Tim, still typing away at the computer and he attempts to rein in the rage he's feeling. The worst part is when Tim turns around, looking expectantly at him. It's always the hardest job of a parent to disappoint their children.

"There's nothing."

Tim's brows go up an he turns away abruptly to continue working at the computer. "I have camera footage of the car heading out of Gotham." He hits a few keys and the footage opens on the screen. Bruce can see the Gotham Limits sign in the background. "However," Tim says anxiously, "There are three other cars that look just like it doing the same thing." Three more videos begin to play on screen, all the same make and model, all with blackout windows, and all heading out of the city.

Anxiety and fear threaten to overwhelm Bruce as he rubs a hand down his face. "Ok." He says quietly. "have you accessed the highway control past our borders?"

Tim nods, and minimizes the footage he has open. "But none of them make it beyond the borders of Gotham."

The older man narrows his eyes as Tim brings up footage along the paths the four vehicles should have taken. "Now, the cameras only take photos every five to ten seconds, which could mean we simply missed them, but I don't think so." Tim pulls up footage from every camera along the expected trajectory going forward ten miles. "If we had simply missed the cars on one camera…"

"They would have shown up on the next one or two for sure." Bruce heaves a heavy sigh as he stares at each individual screen. "So, the cars were coordinated to leave Gotham, but not to _actually_ leave Gotham."

The way it comes out, the words are not exactly a question, but Tim answers anyway. "Right," he says quietly. "I've been reviewing the footage all night, but the four never turn up on any of the cameras on either side of the border. I've run the plates and none of them are turning up in any traffic incidents either."

Bruce makes a noise deep in his throat, but offers no comment.

"Maybe," says a voice from the opposite side of the cave, "He's not in Gotham, but not _out_ of Gotham either." The words are nonchalant, but Bruce can tell there is tension in the new speaker's voice as Dick Grayson approaches.

"What do you mean, Dick?" Tim asks, brows raised in confusion.

"I mean exactly what I said." Dick saunters up to the computer and minimizes the screens of the footage. Instead he pulls up a map of Gotham and the territory beyond it. He lifts his hands and spins over to the hologram table, where the map has now transferred to. Looking at it in 3-D, Dick walks over to the table and highlights the paths that each of the four car took out of the city.

"Ok. So each of them took a different path out of the city, right?" Both Bruce and Tim nod as they approach the table. "But, look here." Dick 'touches' the map and zooms in the image to show each of the roads and their trajectory. "They each lead North, but none of the cars actually _go_ North. So, what is in between Gotham and the Northern territories?"

Bruces eyes widen as Dick moves the map upwards. "The caves." He says in wonder.

"The same ones that are connected to the Batcave?"

"The very ones," Dick says. "I've been wracking my brain all day and night trying to think of where the cars might have gone. But then I thought, 'what if they never left, but wanted us to think they had?'" He enlarges the images and shows the cave systems outside the city. "There are miles of undiscovered caves leading up to Niagra. Jason could be anywhere between there and here."

"But now we have a start," Bruce whispers.

Dick nods, "Now we have a start."

Bruce doesn't hesitate to pull the cowl back over his face. All of his fear and anxiety dissipate at that action, and Bruce ceases where the Bat begins. "Suit up, it's going to be a long night."

…

"Let's try this again, shall we?" Jason trembles as he hears the voice, his delirium only fading for a moment as he opens his eyes. All he can see is the blurry outline of a man in a purple suit. He scrambles back as he hears the echoes of maniacal laughter.

"No," he whispers into the chilled air.

"Forehand?" The man lowers a crowbar, smashing through armor and bone alike. "Or backhand?" The swing catches him on the chin and Jason is sure he sees stars.

"You're not real!" Jason spits the words, almost screaming as fear and pain take hold of his crumbling mind. He closes his eyes tightly, whispering the words like a mantra as he shivers pathetically on the ground. _You'renotreal,you'renotreal-_

"Right-o pumpkin!" The joker laughs as the crowbar falls from his hands. The clown moves closer so that he's crouched down near Jason's ear. "But to your mess of a head?" There's a pause as the Joker smiles. "I may as well be." He whispers before letting out another high cackle that makes Jason grind his teeth.

The smell of the clown's breath, real or imagined, is enough to make Jason vomit – and he does, retching yellow bile onto the ground beneath him. He continues until he's just dry heaving weakly, trying desperately to escape the putrid smell of rotting teeth. "You're not real… you're not REAL!" Jason yells, trying to vanish the images in his mind's eye. The hours of torture that he suffered at the Joker's hands… the smell of blood. It's all too much and Jason heaves again. Now, there is a startling addition of scarlet to the yellow bile below him. He coughs, lifting his hand to his mouth to catch the blood.

"Well. _I_ may not be real, but _that_ certainly is." The Joker gestures at the blood dripping down Jason's face. Then, the clown stands and begins to clap. "It looks like my boy is dying again!" He marches around Jason, clapping in a steady rhythm. "Jason's going to die, Jason's going to di-e, Jason's going to D-I-E!" He laughs and laughs as the words echo in Jason's mind.

"STOP!" He cries. And all of a sudden, the voice does stop. Jason lifts his eyes to look around the cell, but there's nothing except the bile before him and the blood on his hands. The boy collapses, pulling his legs up to him and holding on for dear life. Tears escape the corners of his eyes and Jason rocks softly to try to bring himself under control. _You're going insane, my boy._ The words are whispered at the back of his mind, like the brush of butterfly wings on the walls of his sanity. "Please, make it stop," Jason whispers, no longer sounding like himself. He looks up to see a small child in the corner of the room, wearing a tattered Robin suit and crying softly. The boy mirrors Jason, down to the blood dribbling down his chin.

"Why won't it stop?" The boy asks him. And now there is the clown, standing behind him raising a crowbar, ready to strike the merciful blow that will end the child's life. Jason closes his eyes as he hears the wet snap of bone.

When he opens them again, the boy and the clown are both gone, replaced with the dark visage of the Batman. "Bruce?" Jason says weakly.

The man stares at the boy who he had once called son, but does not move closer. Jason reaches a hand out toward his would-be father and makes a sound deep in his throat – something utterly lost and broken sounding. "Help me," Jason cries.

A look of disgust crosses Bruce's features and he turns away. "You were always my greatest failure, Jason." Tears leak out from Jason's eyes at the words, but Bruce doesn't stop. "The truth is… I never should have taken you in to begin with. You were a street rat; you _deserved_ everything that happened to you. I wish my Batarang had sliced your throat in two – it would have spared this family a lot of trouble."

With that, Batman disappears altogether and Jason's hand falls to the ground. He shakily traces the scar on his neck, leaving a trail of blood as though Batman's words had come true.

"Well. That was fun." It's the Joker again, his face close to the ground as he meets the lost little bird's gaze. "How about we move on to more conditioning? Sound alright, Pumpkin?" laughter echoes through the cell as the Joker raises the crowbar and Jason closes his eyes.

And he screams until his voice is gone.

…

 **Poor Jason… Sorry baby, I still love you. This chapter is more of an intermediate one, but the next one is going to have a lot more info to include, so hold onto your butts.**

 **Anywho, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, the next one is going to be a doozy. Again, feel free to PM me with questions or comments and don't forget to leave a review! :D**


	4. He's into Dealing

**Uhhhh, ok so this is a little late, but it was also ridiculously difficult to write. Trigger warning for torture in this chapter, it's not very graphic, but I want my readers to be warned just in case. Things will clear up in the next chapter and I'm definitely including some Bruce and Damian fluff coming up to make up for this. As always, if you read, review! Reviews give me strength to keep going**

 **Chapter 4: He's into Dealing.**

"He's certainly accelerated. The hallucinations have started to die down." Dr. Young says. He stares down at their newest subject with apathy, making sure to note his reduced fever. The boy is trembling feebly within the cell, muttering every now and again. Still, he's stopped his senseless screaming – which is certainly an improvement. The glass may prevent some noise from escaping, but the earsplitting cries that this one lets loose make his skin crawl. He glances around the room, noting the presence of his colleague Dr. Rice. Her skin and hir are dark, almost the color of the surrounding cave walls. It was an apt description, she was almost as cold and unfeeling as he was – which was to say, exactly like the surrounding cave walls.

Dr. Rice checks the panel to the right of the cell, noting his vitals. "I'm impressed," She says. "Soon we will be able to start the real conditioning. Has Ra's brought in his pet yet?"

Dr. Young nods, though he offers her no other response.

"It's almost time for another dose," comes a new voice. It's Dr. Hanson, the Italian that Ra's brought on due to his extensive work in genetics overseas. The younger man has olive-toned skin and looks almost sickly in the white of the lab coat. His dark brown eyes are sunken, with dark, blaring circles underneath. Dr. Young has to physically stop himself from sneering. The younger man didn't have the stomach for the work they were doing here, he'd shown it as soon as the screaming had started, when he had pointedly turned away with a tight grimace on his face.

"I've been examining the genetic strands in his blood. They are changing, but unlike the other subjects, the chains are reforming – mutating. His body is healing the damage just quickly enough to allow for slight alterations, but not quickly enough to stop the process before it begins." Dr. Hanson continues, and his voice holds not a small amount of wonder. "By the end of the regiment he may just be the perfect specimen."

Dr. Young nods, already moving to the exam table on the far side of the laboratory. There on the medical tray sit six vials of greenish-blue liquid and a syringe. He loads the syringe slowly, eying Dr. Hanson over the serum.

"He is quite phenomenal," Dr. Rice adds, still writing down figures from the display. Inside the cell, their patient was starting to stir.

Jason's pale skin gleams in the half-light of the cell and as the boy turns, sweat slivers down his skin like condensation on a glass. He groans as he attempts to sit up. It was probably his worst decision, because a minute later he's doubled over and emptying the meager contents of his stomach. Dr. Hanson makes a noise close to a reprimand as he moves closer to the glass separating them.

"That's a symptom of your changing genetic structure," Dr. Hanson states nonchalantly, making a note on his clipboard.

After another minute of dry heaving, Jason sits back heavily against the stone wall of his cell. "What. Did. You. DO?" Jason snarls between clenched teeth. Each word accentuated with a growl that held a hint of pain. As they watched, Jason's nose began to bleed. A tide of unstoppable crimson ran down his face – it dampened his shirt and Jason coughed as it flowed into his mouth. The boy cried out, falling to is side as a wave of pain ran through his muscles.

"We're making you better, dear boy." Dr. Young says as a smile crosses his face. "And right about now, you are experiencing the symptoms of withdrawal. You see, you won't last long without this." He holds up the syringe as Jason grimaces at the shining contents.

"Don't. Want. It." Jason ground out. The blood was still flowing around the boy and he was already growing weaker.

Dr. Rice actually laughed at that, as she pressed the keys to open the cell. The glass rose slowly, yet Jason only grows more agitated. He drags himself toward the back of the cell, anything to get _away_. He mutters something under his breath, sounding similar to _not now, not again_ and there is panic in his eyes as his back hits the wall.

Dr. Young walks into the cell, headless of the boy's fear. "I don't believe you understand your position here, boy." The needle of the syringe is all the Jason is looking at, even as the doctor continues. "Our benefactor has been developing this serum for over two and a half years now. You just so happen to be the only one that has survived the initial stages intact. The others… well. They snapped." Dr. Young accentuated the final word by plunging the needle into Jason's arm. The liquid burned as it entered his system and the boy let out a strangled cry as the madness of the pit took hold of him.

"Good news is that your mind is already 70 percent _gone_ ," Dr. Rice said, still smiling at him gleefully. "Soon, though, you'll have a friend – if all goes according to plan upstairs." She pointedly looked at her watch and made a clicking noise deep in her throat. "Good luck, Jason Todd. You'll need it."

She turns away as the boy begins to writhe on the ground, as his eyes roll back into his head and the madness of the Lazarus pit consumes him.

…

The small robot lifted off the ground as Bruce stepped back. It looked like a small bat, though this one was fully mechanical and the shine of silver glinted off the metal of its eyes. "I've enabled this drone to use sonar – it will go through the cave system and transmit a basic map for us to follow."

At his side, Dick paced back and forth, like he was making a rut in the ground. "Ok, but how long will that take? It's going on a week now since Jason first went missing."

Dick had always been a restless child. He would fidget and shake and generally _move_ , no matter what the situation called for. It wasn't necessarily impatience, not always, but rather a deeply ingrained need for physical movement. His parents had constantly trained the boy for action, as had been necessary for the young aerialist. Though he was loath to admit it, Bruce was also partially responsible in his training of Robin in the aftermath. The result was now a twenty-five-year-old that still fidgeted like a six-year-old.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were bored." Bruce said, eyeing his eldest out of the corner of his eye.

The young man fidgeted as he spoke, like he could barely focus on the words. "Not bored. Just… restless. You know me, Bruce."

"I do."

"So what are we doing here? We should just go in there!"

"We might miss something. We can't risk that."

Dick huffed, falling silent for the barest of moments. "Jason wouldn't hesitate," he said quietly,

"No," Bruce said, his eyes staring fondly into the distance. "He wouldn't."

"Don't get me wrong, B. He's a pathological liar. He's beaten and betrayed all of us at one point or another. And he's so volatile no one can even get close to him…" Dick pauses and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, the feeling of being watched pricking his senses. "But he's still my brother. Your son."

Bruce's gauntleted hand rubs at the back of his armored neck, like he too is feeling that strange prickling of the senses. "He was," Bruce says, then shakes his head. "He is."

"I can't help but wonder if he knew."

"Knew what?" Bruce asks, finally turning away from the calibration of the Sonar prototype.

"If he knew we cared about him, back before… you know."

Dick is staring at him helplessly, arms akimbo and pacing resumed. Bruce just shakes his head, unsure or unable to come up with a response for that. Had Jason known? He'd certainly never taken the time to tell the boy. He'd been too afraid of taking the place of a parent in the life of someone who had no positive interactions with one. He knew Dick hadn't. His eldest had been too angry with him at the time. The silence between them now said everything he couldn't.

He refused to allow the past to interfere with the present, though. And Bruce had to admit that he was feeling the inane itch of impatience, just as Dick was. It had been five days since Jason had gone missing, and this was the third cave system that the family needed to investigate. So far, each survey had revealed several possible caverns, but none had panned out. Each check yielded nothing but dust and ash. It was beyond frustrating, but Bruce had nothing else to do but grit his teeth and keep looking. The comm in his cowl buzzed, startling them out of their thoughts.

"Batman? Nightwing? How is that calibration going?" came the static of Tim's voice.

"Sonar is prepped and ready to investigate this cave, Red" Bruce said. With a single button on his digital keyboard, the little bat zipped forward. As it moved, it emitted a high-pitched screech that would sound like any other bat, were the sound to be investigated. Meanwhile, a digital map was being generated with the information. It took less than thirty minutes for the robotic bat to return to Bruce and by then he had earmarked eight possible caverns to search, to which Tim added another possible area.

"This is one of the only cave systems that we have checked so far that connects directly with the Batcave," Tim said. There was the sound of clicking keys and then the map on Bruce's gauntlet glowed blue as the map was uploaded to include the new information.

Dick came out of his rut to stand beside his father-figure, bringing the map online in the gauntlets of his own suit. "Here goes nothing…" he muttered.

And with that, they stepped into the cave, moving slowly and checking every nook and cranny for his wayward brother.

…

Jason woke to being jostled out of his cell. His arms are gripped so tightly that his hands have gone bloodless and tingle uncomfortably. He is dragged out of the room and through a thick gate on the far side of the laboratory. Once through, Jason struggles to keep up with the twists and turns the guards take him through. Finally, they reach a wide, open cavern that is surprisingly well lit. There is a post in the center with chains attached to it and a small fire burning directly behind it. Ra's Al Ghul stands right beside the fire, with one of his henchman holding a rod into the fire. Jason knows where he's being dragged to, but the Bat taught him to be a stickler for detail, so his eyes continue their surveillance of the room. To the right, there is a table that looks like the one he must have been strapped to before. There is a bright light above the table that keeps his mind trapped in those first moments of agony upon entering this hell. To the right there is a freezer door, complete with the vapor of frozen air that makes him shiver just looking at it. Straight ahead, he can see a shimmering wall of what looks like glass, but it may be digital, he can't tell. On the other side of that glass, Jason can just make out the walls of the cave system beyond – it must be the exit out of here. He files it away for later, just as Bruce always taught him.

When he reaches the center of the room, he is dropped at the feet of Ra's Al Ghul. The man is silent and still as a mountain before him and the silence draws out as Ra's continues looking into the flames. Minutes pass and Jason can't help wondering if he's been forgotten. Then, before Jason can even register what's happening, he's on his ass and bleeding from a tooth that's just cracked under the weight of a solid punch. He spits the coppery flood of crimson to the floor, then looks up at the henchman and gives his best shit-eating grin.

"That all you got?" He asks.

A smile graces the lips of his captor, but it never reaches his eyes. Still, Jason can't help that his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest just looking at the menace before him. Taking in the various stages of torture he knows he will soon be enduring, Jason closes his eyes. Bruce had told him long ago that retreat was never a failure, just a calculation – a way to survive until the endgame. Now, physical retreat was impossible due to the horrendous, unresponsive mess his body is in. The only way out was to grin and bear it. He needed to make a mental retreat. It was called compartmentalizing, and he'd done it often enough as a child when the beatings and abuse overwhelmed his too-small body. To do it, he would lock himself away in a dark, dusty corner of his mind where he couldn't see, hear, or feel the agony of living. That way, when it was all over, he'd come out of his shell in one piece. Even if he lost more and more pieces of himself every time it happened. He would survive.

And survival was all that really mattered.

"Hold him."

The rough hands are back, but this time they added a chain for good measure, wrapping it around his neck and pulling so that his head was forced back. Jason breathed raggedly through the blood filling his mouth. He watched the iron as it was removed from the fire, it had a number on it – 66. Jason's terrified gaze locked onto the number like a burning star amid a night sky. "No." He said quietly, watching as the henchman twirls the iron around. Jason scoots backward, or tries to. There's nowhere to go and his limbs are so uncoordinated that he only manages to make the chain around his neck tighten.

"Please," He tries, but the man just grins at him sadistically. He can feel the heat of the rod now, like a furnace. As a child, Willis Todd had delighted in putting cigarettes out on his skin, delighted in making Jason scream until he passed out from the pain. Now, watching that red-hot brand approach, Jason knows this will be a hundred times worse.

"Move the shirt." Ra's says, and the men follow his orders, pulling the hem of his wife-beater down so that his chest is revealed.

And then the brand is on his flesh. Jason doesn't scream, there isn't time for the fear and pain to transform into that. Instead he gasps, a nasty sound of shock as his lips curl into a grimace. The man just smiles as he holds the brand to his skin, letting it sizzle for a minute longer than he needs to before pulling it away. The smell makes bile rise in his throat, but he only manages to dry heave weakly with the chain still wrapped tightly around his throat. Tears are slipping from his eyes and he can't find the strength to stop them anymore. His voice is gone, and Jason Todd has retreated from the world. Anyone who called his name now, wouldn't receive an answer – for now, he was no more than a little boy hiding away within the prison of his own mind.

Because he knows this isn't going to be all for the day. The men are already dragging him off toward the freezer unit and Jason can't even bring himself to care. He's already made his retreat.

He's not coming back and he can't even remember whether he thinks of Bruce in the last moments before all he knows is agony.

…

It's hours before they take him out of the freezer. The brand still burns hot, but the rest of his body feels numb and cold. He doesn't cry out anymore, his throat is too raw. Honestly, with his mind trapped deep within itself, his body is of little consequence. Still, his mind conjures images of Bruce and Dick and Tim and Damian, but that in and of itself is a form of torture. Bruce has already failed him once, and it's been _days_ now. Soon he's pushed to the ground, tasting dirt and defeat cling to his lips. The brand mark stings wildly as the dust is pushed into the fresh wound. Though his body is still recovering from the numbing cold, the prickly sensation of thawing out is omnipresent all over his body. It's a new kind of agony, one that he can't say he's had the particular pleasure of enjoying in the past. _Lucky me_ , he thinks bitterly.

"I thought you'd like to know that your father is on his way." It's Ra's again, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

"I haven't had a father since Willis Todd up and left us." The words are all bravado, and he knows that Ra's knows that too. He can't help that his eyes tear up or that there is hope building inside him. Still, he'd always been taught to fake it until he made it – and that was pretty much all he had going for him at this point.

"He'll be at the entrance to this cavern within the hour and there is a chance, however small, that he will find you. However, I doubt he will even attempt to take you away from me."

Jason does look up at that. From his position on the ground, he stares accusingly into the eyes of his captors before spitting the dirt from his lips. He doesn't respond otherwise, doesn't have to really. Ra's knows something, something that he isn't inclined to share with Jason. So, he waits as sensation slowly returns and his body kicks into overdrive, shivering to return some warmth to his limbs.

There's a weight on his back that he is steadily gaining awareness of, it's one of Ra's' henchmen holding his arm twisted there, but he can't muster the strength to fight that grip. There's a syringe at his neck and he realizes dimly that he's being injected again as the madness takes hold of his mind and scatters his thoughts to the wind. He's drooling madly into the dirt and his body is wracked with spasms as the numbness disappears and the burn on his chest heals – and becomes an ugly scar of the number 66. He doesn't scream though, and distantly, in the self-contained corner of his mind, he feels pride swell.

The blood stops flowing from his nose as he slowly recovers from the effects of the serum. The doctor had been telling the truth before, he probably wouldn't last long without the serum. He knows the signs of addiction when he feels the relief that the serum brings. In Jason's years on the streets, and for some years after it too, he had been subjected to a cocktail of drugs including heroine and cocaine. Each one came with side effects and withdrawal symptoms that were painfully evident after only a few hours going without.

He isn't completely sure what happens in the next few minutes, only that when the darkness clouding his vision dissipates, he's on the other side of the room. Blinking dumbly, he sees a dark visage at the glass door in front of him. He's still on the ground, can still taste the cocktail of dirt and what is probably insects on his tongue, but it doesn't seem to matter so much now. Bruce is on the other side of that door, seemingly staring straight at him. Or through him.

Through the cowl.

Because that isn't exactly Bruce standing there, it's Batman.

And there's a big difference between the two.

Jason opens his mouth to cry out – in joy, in fear, he's not sure. But his voice never comes. His arm is jerked upright, snapping the bone audibly. And the cry in his throat whispers off into a gasp of shock and pain before his face is forced into the dirt again. Tears fall, unbidden.

"Bruce…" He whispers against the fresh agony in his arm.

And he sees Batman turn away abruptly. It's a macabre reenactment of his hallucination from before, only this is real – the pain is grounding him to sanity and this is _real_. Bruce is leaving him here, leaving him to die and Jason can't take anymore.

The tears come in streams, turning to ash in his mouth as his whole world goes up in smoke. Vaguely, beyond Bru- _Batman-_ he can see his brother- _Nightwing-_ turning away as well. Both of them are leaving him here, alone to be tortured and broken.

And that realization is possibly the worst torture that Ra's could ever have inflicted upon him.

 **Sorry Jaybird, things will get better soon. Well, not for you. Not yet. But cuddles to come!**

 **Don't forget to review! I'm always interested in what ya'll think (^O^)***


	5. These Days

**Okay, so quick note about this chapter. I'm running off of a lot of the New 52 here, particularly Red Hood and the Outlaws, around issue 20-27 where Jason wipes his memories in part due to Bruce's actions in manipulating him. (Even if it's later revealed that he had to go through with it for Ducra, Talia wouldn't have known that). However, I wanted to note that this comic kind of goes off the rails a bit because Jason and Tim still have their original origin stories, particularly where no one really knows how/why Jay came back – only that he dug himself out of his grave and had his brain rebooted by the pit. (ALSO, if anyone is wondering about the last scene from chapter 4, it will be explained later, as Jason becomes aware of what happened.)**

 **Anywho, if you have any questions about cannon for this story, PM me or leave a comment about it!**

 **ONWARD!**

 **Chapter 5: These Days**

6 months.

It's been six _months_ and still there was no sign of Jason. Christmas had come and gone, yet Alfred had dutifully kept a place setting for the wayward bird. Dick and Tim had returned to their respective cities, though they both would still call on occasion to follow up on one lead or another. They hadn't given up, per se, but they had lost the will to continue on.

" _Maybe he's already escaped," Dick had said, only weeks after the initial kdnapping. "A guy like Jason… Not even Arkham could hold him."_

No. Not even Arkham. But if the recent jailbreak was anything to go by, that really wasn't saying much in the long run. Jason may have his training with the Bat, and whatever training he had received after the Bat as well, but if they had found a way to subdue the boy… his son… Bruce hated to think about it.

There was no question that Jason's loss was taking a heavy toll on the family. Sometimes, Bruce would look back so see the silhouette of his second Robin. Sometimes, he'd see Dick or Tim looking over their shoulders, perhaps expecting to see the same thing.

Other times, in the middle of the night, Bruce could hear the man who had become a second father to him as he wandered the halls. He could hear it when Alfred stopped outside of Jason's room, because cleaning the dust from the boy's things was something that he could never garner the strength to do during the day. And after the first month had come and gone, Bruce could hear the old man say something as he paused upon leaving the room. It sounded something like "Come back, old boy. We need you."

And the words stung as if he'd been struck. Because it wasn't Jason who was failing Alfred.

It was him.

In the months since Jason's capture, Bruce had practically torn Gotham apart. He'd searched and clawed and dug his way through every lead – but every single one was a dead end. There wasn't a day that went by that Bruce didn't interrogate a thug, asking about his wayward son, but things had become more and more difficult with Damian there. As he became more and more violent with the city's underworld, Damian began to change. It was subtle at first, little things or little words spoken behind his back, but it changed abruptly into outright dislike. They'd argued, multiple times. Damian was afraid of what he had become, had said that he didn't want to watch this devolution. Bruce had stoically ignored the boy, broken the arm of the thug he'd been holding.

The boy had asked if this is what he'd been like when he lost Jason the first time.

And he'd been right. Bruce was slipping into old patterns, taking his anger and grief out on the denizens of his city. The first time – and Bruce had to take a calming breath just at the thought of Jason – Bruce had to admit that he'd been a wreck. He _had_ done these things before, but the difference was that he was so much more reckless the last time. He'd gotten into fights that even he had little hope of surviving. Alfred had started to leave the medkit on the computer console rather than stay to help stitch him up.

It hadn't been until Tim came along for Bruce to finally realize what he'd been doing. At that time, he hadn't fully realized how much taking care of a child meant to him. Tim had demanded his time, demanded his attention, and surely kept him from losing his already unbalanced mind. From that point on, he had tried harder. Adjusted his movements and pulled his punches. He made the Batman back into what it was supposed to be: a symbol to strike fear into the scum of Gotham. But not to actually _strike_ at them – and even Jim had noted the change. Had said "Welcome back," when Robin had first returned, though they both knew he hadn't been talking to Tim.

Six months was a long time. And now, with Damian staying with his older brother and Tim off with the Titans, Bruce could feel himself slipping. They'd both managed to move one. Bruce, it seemed, would never be good at that. Moving on, in his mind, meant forgetting. And forgetting seemed like the ultimate offense.

Still, standing at the top of Wayne Tower with his cape flowing in the harsh wind of winter Bruce couldn't help wishing that his family was around him.

And then he heard the word that he had never expected to hear again.

"Beloved."

…

"Talia," He said gruffly, turning to face her.

"You have not been taking care of yourself, my love." She moved then, approaching slowly. Her hips swayed slightly as the form-fitting black suit clung to her every curve, but it was not quite deceptive enough to hide the weapons that he knew she carried. Still, as she stopped a mere foot away from him, he couldn't help the stir of old feelings that rose to the surface. Like blowing dust through cobwebs. He couldn't afford it, but there it was all the same.

"I don't see how that's any of your concern," He bit out. "Damian is not here."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Then why are you here."

She moves closer then, a hand absently rising to trace the bat symbol adorned on his chest. The movement could almost be loving if not for the reflection in her eyes. Her lip twitches and she applies more pressure with her hand before turning away. "I have lost contact with Jason."

The name hits him like a ton of bricks. No one has said it aloud for a month at the least, making it almost a taboo – just as it had been immediately following the boy's death. Still, his mind is running a mile a minute and he doesn't miss the subtle, nervous ticks that Talia is displaying.

"I wasn't aware that you two were on speaking terms."

Her green eyes swivel back to meet his, but now the nervousness is gone. It is replaced by the beginnings of anger. It isn't quite directed at him, though. In the moment, for all her fierceness in battle and the tactics, she resembled more a mother cat – a tigress – protecting her young.

"You've known about it and you've been tracking me," She hisses. All pretense of kindness and loving devotion gone. She eyes him suspiciously, her forest green eyes glinting in the half light. Cat's eyes. "What have you done to him."

It isn't quite a challenge, but the words are filled with such conviction that he does falter. He takes a step back, intending to gather his thoughts, but she just takes another step forward – very much on the prowl, relentless. The accusation hurts, but he refused to rise to the bait. "I've been tracking you to find where _you've_ taken him."

She snorts derisively, contempt right back in her voice as she takes another step to follow his retreat. "He and I have made it a habit to remain in contact at least once a month ever since he left the All Caste."

They'd been in contact more often and more reliably than he had. It hurt, somewhere near his heart, where the rapid pulse had picked up in speed. He doesn't mention that, though.

"The 'All Caste'?" He asked, one eyebrow raised in question. She couldn't see it, hidden as his face was behind the cowl. It didn't seem to matter though, her muscles are still taut as a rope.

"Where he received most of his training following his… _estrangement_ from you. He has missed every single one for the past six months."

"You mean his _death_."

She nods, though that is the only outward indication that she has heard him.

"You've been in contact with him since he came back to Gotham in the beginning… were you directing his actions, too?"

She scoffed, turning away and walking to the edge of the building to look down upon Gotham. "You should know – as a parent, you can never 'direct' their actions." Her gaze hardens as it meets the white out lenses of the cowl. "Or maybe you don't," she accuses.

"Enough, Talia." Bruce lays a hand on her shoulder, pulling her to him. They are close now, close enough for Bruce to detect the subtle tremor running through her. _She's worried,_ he thought. She bit her lip and looked down, unwilling to continue to look at him. "Tell me why you're really here."

"Damian is a son of the blood," She says quietly, her hand moving to cover her womb. "But Jason… He is a child of the heart."

The tension between them eases, now that the predatory nature inside of Talia has acknowledged that he has not threatened her young. He is grateful for it. "And they are both my sons," He says, just as quietly. "Jason was taken, six months ago. He was protecting Damian, that's who they were really after."

Despite the gravity of his words, Talia smiles. It isn't directed at him, but more toward a memory – like she's looking right through him at the face of their son. She sits heavily on the ledge of the roof, pulling him down as she goes so that they are side-by-side. "when I first brought him to the League, he was so… broken. Like a tool that had lost its purpose. But when my father sent men after him, he acted on instinct. He put himself between me and them – not knowing or caring that they were never after me. Because that's what he is, what he always has been – a guardian. A protector."

She swallowed thickly at the memory before shaking her head and looking back up at him. Her eyes are clouded, but she seems to be looking _at_ him now. "What do they want from him? From them?"

"The men I spoke to said they were after his – their – blood. I suspected it was their mutual tie to the Lazarus pit."

"Damian for his genetic composition, and Jason for his resurrection."

"Yes."

She stands abruptly, tearing away from his grasp and hissing angrily. "My father is behind this. I know it."

"I suspected him. He's been missing for almost the same amount of time."

"Not missing, Beloved. He's been on a mission." Bruce stands to walk beside her as they make their way to the other side of the roof. "The pits are no longer affecting him as they once did.

"In the last century, he has been mortally wounded on at least 10 different occasions. Each of these occasions has led to another trip to the pits. But every time it has left him less and less able to return. It has made him unstable, especially after the incident with the well of sins."

Bruce frowned, recalling the times which were due in part – or full - to his actions.

"It was part of the reason that I brought Damian to live with you," she admits. "Though it pains me to be away from him, he is safer where he is beyond my father's reach." Her hand goes to her stomach again reflexively, like she wanted nothing more than to defend him with her body – as she had for nine months before his birth.

"Or so I thought," She continued grimly.

"Why would he be after Damian?" He prompted.

"He wanted to use Damian, for him to become the Al Ghul heir. I rejected the idea. No matter where he goes in life, Damian is and forever will be my son. My father began making advances upon the boy, trying to mold the perfect heir. But I could see a change taking place in him, a darkness taking over my father's mind. I knew that if I did not remove Damian from his influence, I would lose my chance. At first, I thought Jason could do that for me."

"What?" Bruce asked incredulously, pulling her to a halt at the very edge of the rooftop.

"I thought that he could act as a protector for Damian. I thought he could be raised alongside my son, raised to love and cherish his brother as I knew he could." She takes a breath, pausing as she recounts her tale. "But he was too broken. His mind was in a million pieces and when he met Damian, he just looked right through him."

"You wanted to use _my son-"_

"Listen, Beloved." His mouth shut with an audible click. "I brought Jason back against the direct orders of my father. I held him in my arms as the waves restored functionality to his brain. I held him as the pain and madness shook him. It was in that moment that I knew I could not allow my father to lay his hands upon either of them.

"So I sent them away. Damian to receive training, hidden away from both myself and my father. Jason, to Ducra."

"Ducra?"

"The woman who oversaw the All Caste."

"I see."

"Not yet you don't," She said. "It was in those years that my father went truly mad. He was desperate in his search for a suitable heir – he trained many fighters, but none proved worthy to rule his armies."

"And then Jason came back into the picture."

"Yes, beloved. He returned to Gotham, wild and uncompromising. He brought my father's attention back to him." A hand came up, touching a light scar above Bruce's lip where Jason had once thrown his own bastardized batarang at him. "He has been keeping a close eye on the boy ever since. He almost succeeded in bringing him over. Especially after what you did to him, after Damian's 'death'."

Bruce looked away, memories returning to when he had intentionally brother his son back to the place of his murder in the hopes of stirring a memory to explain his resurrection. He remembered the night clearly. Knowing the anger, rage – and worst of all _pain –_ that had come over Jason… he had no words to excuse his own actions.

"He wiped his own memories, in part due to your manipulations." Bruce's head shot up, staring into the deep green of Talia's. There was rage boiling under the surface. Like that jungle cat had returned at the mere memory, still roaring defiantly, defensively, over her cub. "He wandered, lost in the world because of _you_."

"I'm sorry," He said. And he meant it. There was sorrow hidden behind the cowl. Sorrow, and shame.

"It's not me you should have apologized to."

"I know."

Talia shook her head, turning away from him once again to stare out at the night. They stand together, yet farther apart than Metropolis and Gotham.

"Jason escaped my father with the help of his outlaw friends, but if anything, it only made my father more determined than ever to capture him. He swore on that day that Jason would pay for his actions at the well," She continued. "It was only this last year that he has broken off. I know he's been developing something, but whatever it is, it's not good."

"The men that I interrogated said that whoever took him wanted to test a new drug on him. Do you have any idea what that could mean?"

"No, I don't," She said. "But I might know someone who would."

He reached out a hand and smiled when she took it. There was something very old and very powerful about a family united.

And together, they would show that strength to whomever had deigned to take their son away.

…

Damian scratched at the scar on his shoulder absently as he sat cross-legged on Dick Grayson's couch. The apartment was an expensive one, with luxurious furnishings and fixtures. Damian had no doubt that it was upwards of several thousand dollars a month just to rent. Still, the richness was nothing compared to Wayne Manor. In the recesses of his mind, Damian could admit that he was homesick. Being here, with his once partner and mentor, Damian couldn't help but be reminded of the bloodthirst that had driven him away.

Perhaps that wasn't quite correct. After all, Damian had never shied from drawing blood before. No, perhaps it was something more. Like the look in his father's eyes when their similar shades of blue met. Shame, that had been the expression. It was his fault that Todd had been taken in the first place, and now it was his fault that they could not find him.

The look had been akin to the one that Mother had given him right before she had abandoned him. He knew that the move was prophylactic on his mother's part, intended to halt the cancer (him) before it spread. Still, he couldn't help the bitterness that rose at the thought.

He knew that she had loved Jason as a second son. Now, here was one more reason that abandoning him was the right choice.

He closed his eyes, willing the constant migraine he'd had for the past six months to leave him as the TV droned on before him. Dick was fast asleep next to him, looking for all the world like an exhausted parent just trying to catch a few Zs at the end of a long and trying day.

Damian scooted closer to his older brother, knowing that the older man usually slept deeply, especially after a long patrol. Slowly, the boy lowered his head to rest on his brother's shoulder. It would never have happened if Dick had been awake, but sleep is an easy enough cover for any comfort-seeking child. The boy had learned that a long time ago. His head remains there and he just listens to the steady beat of his brother's heart. _Bump-bump, bump-bump_. For a time, he'd thought that this heart had stopped indefinitely – and Dick had thought the same of him. There's a very irrational thought that if he lifts his head too soon, it will cease beating altogether. And the terror that rises in his throat is enough to keep his ear pressed solidly against the older man's chest.

That's why it was only a moderate surprise when Dick's arm swallowed him up in a fierce hold.

Damian knew that the older man was no longer asleep, but they both feigned ignorance. He knew it was solely for his benefit, but he loved his brother all the more for it. At times, Dick understood the boy better than his own father. So it was that in the silence before the dawn, tears tracked down Damian's face and onto the crumpled t-shirt that Dick wore.

"It's my fault," Damian cried softly. Dick held the child impossibly closer, losing all pretenses of sleep in a moment.

"No, Little D. It was never your fault." Grayson's voice is raspy, like he's just woken.

"Father is acting irrationally."

"No, he's acting like _Bruce_." There's a smile in his voice, though it's too dark in the apartment to tell for sure. He sighs and Damian's head moves up and down in time with the movement. "You weren't there when we lost Jason the first time, but this is just how he does things."

"He's acting like he lost a child."

"Because he has."

"Todd is far from a child."

Dick breaths out a laugh that shakes Damian uncomfortably against him. "Yeah, but he is _his_ child. Always was, always will be. Just like all of us."

The boy clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Do not make me regret my decision to name you my favorite, Grayson."

Dick laughs again, full and hearty. He lays a kiss to the top of Damian's head before he can properly swat him away.

"It's okay, Dami. Really, it is."

The boy doesn't respond, only presses his ear into Dick's chest to center himself with the steady heartbeat. This is _not_ cuddling. He's just… making sure that Dick is still breathing satisfactorily.

"As if you know what it's like. You're not the blood son." The words were common in their first months together, but he hasn't said them with any heat behind them since. They have none now.

"Yes, we all know, you little prince of Gotham."

"As long as you know…"

They are interrupted when each of their respective communicators jump to life, beeping and rumbling angrily on the table before them. Damian moves to get it, but Dick pulls him back – wrapping solid arms around him for a moment. And waiting until the rapid beat of Damian's heart matches the steady beat of his own. The communicators go silent for a moment.

But only for a moment.

…

Tim's communicator, the one he reserves for Gotham-related disasters, is still ringing when he reaches the Teen Titan helicopter.

"Yello?" He says after he flips on the holocomunicator.

"Tim." The voice is a shock as Batman's face appears before him. The two have been incommunicado for months now, preferring to keep one another at arm's length. Certainly, Jason's kidnapping had left a rift in the family, but none were more profound than the one between Bruce and Tim. Jason had acted as a buffer between them before, bridging the gap between Tim's feelings of ostracism and Bruce's stoicism – making jokes and generally pulling the attention away from the elephant in the room.

And the elephant was Tim's immediate replacement following Damian's arrival.

Tim blinks, once. Twice. "Bruce?"

"I may have found a lead."

Tim's eyes widen behind his domino mask, but there is no other outward sign of shock. "Does this have something to do with Talia's recent visit to Gotham?"

Bruce is silent for a moment, clearly a little impressed with Tim's detective skills. "Yes," He says simply.

"Great."

"Tim… I need you to come to the cave."

"Great," Tim says again, already pulling switches and bringing the helicopter online. "I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"And Tim…"

His hands still on the controls of the helicopter at the imploring tone. His eyes come up to meet the white-out lenses of the cowl. _His lip trembles ever so slightly, perhaps a sign of discomfort._

"I'm sorry. For everything." But Bruce isn't quite looking _at_ Tim, more through him. "I want…" he sighs. "I want this family to be whole again."

"But you're not sure if you can trust her," Tim says, quickly catching on to what Bruce is talking about.

"I think you have a much better sense for when someone is lying."

 _Damn straight_ , the though comes unbidden. And it isn't Tim's voice in his mind, but Jason's. He can't help but admit that he has missed their wayward bird. Jason had been born and raised on the streets, and as such he brought a new perspective to fighting crime – one that was nearly inaccessible to both Tim and Bruce. He'd said as much in their last meeting. _The red hood can go places that the Batman can't._ Very true, but it wasn't just about the vigilantes themselves. Jason knew how to handle people, knew how to manipulate thugs in a way that the fear of the Bat could never quite compensate for. Tim, on the other hand, was better at puzzling things out. He was good at reading minute details in posture and tone, as was Jason, but Tim took it one step further – in using that information to determine future outcomes. Together, the two brothers had been able to fill in gaps for cases. It had been… nice. Like what working with a brother _should_ feel like.

He doesn't say any of that, though. He just nods, keeping his emotion and excitement hidden for the moment.

"I'll be there," Tim says as he maneuvers the helicopter into open air and cuts off the transmission.

…

For some paths in life, one's choices may automatically select the paths of those which intersect it. A warrior's path will intersect with other warriors, both enemies and allies alike. But as with card or dice games, sometimes unexpected crossings occur. Some are driven by chance, others by intent. Some by a change in one's goals – or the malice behind them.

Such manipulations may prove effective in the short-term, but the longer-term consequences may be more difficult to predict. A good tactician will understand these consequences before they act. A bad one will simply continue recklessly.

Such was the case with R'as Al Ghul and his newest subject: Jason Todd.

And Jason had been learning.

All opponents are not necessarily enemies, though both share an opposition of goals. The competing interests of two parties put them at odds. Both Enemies and opponents see one another as something to be overcome. An opportunity. Or a threat. Sometimes the threat is personal, other times it is a perceived violation of standards – and Jason has learned this lesson well over the past months. He has been broken and reformed several times now – "Starting from scratch" as Ra's had said.

What is left of him now saw the suit before him as an opportunity. It was state of the art, a flexible polymer that would allow for an altogether new fighting style. But, as Jason Donned the mask and felt the brush of air as it hissed closed, he couldn't help wondering which he had become – an opponent, or an enemy. And what paths would be completely and irrevocably changed by its crossing.

He supposed he would find out soon enough.

…

 **Well. This chapter was harder for me to write than the others, but here it is. Please leave a review if you have any questions about cannon or the story in general.**

 **Thanks again to Jasminetiger for their ongoing support and PMs, they may have given me a few ideas for a spinoff. ;)**


	6. Dying Days

**So this chapter was really difficult to write, mostly because it's a filler. Next chapter is going to be a bit longer and a lot more important in the long run. happy reading!**

 **Chapter 6: Dying Days**

The sun rose slowly over Gotham, seemingly struggling for every inch, besieged by the night and those who dwell within it. It took a few more minutes before a victor was clear – and the sun's glorious rays cut through the chill in the air. A heavy blanket of snow covered the city, only managing to glisten weakly in the early morning light as the city's inhabitants sluggishly pulled themselves out of bed and out into the new dawn.

Dick Grayson was not one of those denizens. He and his younger brother hadn't had a wink of sleep in the past two nights, having only just arrived in Gotham after a long and arduous journey through New Jersey traffic. He sighed heavily as he slid his key into the lock of Wayne Manor and stepped through the threshold. Damian made a beeline for the cave and disappeared underground without so much as a second glance. _Like father, like son_ , Dick thought bitterly. Then again, the boy hadn't been the one driving for the past six hours. That honor had fallen to the eldest of the Robins.

 _Lucky me!_ He thought, casting a wary glance around the entryway.

Alfred was nowhere to be found, but the smell wafting from the kitchen had his mouth watering and his stomach grumbling for food. Directing chosen, Dick pulled his and Damian's bags through the door before closing it tightly behind him. He followed his nose to the wide eat-in area and frowned when he saw that Alfred was nowhere to be seen.

"Alfred?" He called.

There was no immediate answer, but a few minutes later the old man poked his head around the corner. "Master Richard! How good it is to see you."

Dick let the infectious smile on the old man's face spread to his own as he took two more feet into the kitchen. The butler was quick to note the growling tummy of his former charge and made up a bowl of hot soup for the young man before turning away to collect silverware.

"This is an unexpected surprise. A welcome one," the old man amended at seeing Dick's face fall. "But quite unexpected."

"Bruce was the one that told us to get here as fast as we could," Dick said, taking a sip of the creamy substance before him. It was good. It hit his stomach like a rock after the six hour drive, but it was a good kind of feeling. Alfred may have been a horrible baker, but he was just about the most amazing cook when it came to just about anything else.

Alfred hummed noncommittally before moving to stir the rich liquid on the stove. "He said nothing to me. Though with recent events, that isn't quite so abnormal…"

Dick sighed. "I'm sorry, Alfred."

The old man's eyebrows rose comically, even as he placed a tall glass of water next to the bowl of soup. "Whatever for, Master Richard?"

"I know he isn't the easiest. And it's only gotten worse now that Jason…" Dick broke off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

The old man's face darkens, as though he's lost in thought.

"It was never easy. Not where Master Todd was concerned." The smile and warmth returned to his face in the blink of an eye. "The boy was quite something in his youth."

"Yeah. I just wish I'd taken the time to, I don't know, get to know him."

"At the time, I doubt he would have accepted you, Master Dick."

Would Jason have accepted him? Had he even wanted a family? The obvious answer was no, but as Bruce had taught him, the simply answer was often not the correct one. Jason had made it clear in the few times that Dick had met up with his replacement that Jason didn't need a brother. Dick would never be his idol, but he would always be his obstacle – something to be bound over and surpassed as quickly as possible. And back then, Dick couldn't even be sure that he would have wanted the boy as a brother.

Back then, he hadn't wanted much of anything beyond his pissing match with Bruce.

"You're probably right, Al." Dick said instead, shaking himself from his musings. He finished the soup before him and was more than happy when Alfred turned to refill the bowl. The old man gave him a knowing smile, then turned away and headed out of the kitchen.

Alfred paused at the corner of the counter, placing a hand upon Dick's shoulder. "It will be alright, Dick. Bruce will bring him home, no matter how long it takes."

"My only worry is how much there will be left of him when we do…" Dick trailed off, letting the weight of those words hang in the air between them for a few moments before Alfred left the room.

…

The very air of the cave felt oppressive, like it could suffocate him at any moment. He wasn't claustrophobic, and he'd never been afraid that he couldn't get enough air. Yet standing in the open expanse of the cave systems he felt more like he was buried under a mile of dirt and ash.

It wasn't anything rational, and a part of him, the part that he had inherited from his father, scolded him for that. But another part, the one that had been nurtured and held by his older brother, told him to accept the emotions for what they were: guttural reactions to his surroundings. Particularly to the woman standing before him.

His mother.

Talia Al Ghul.

There was sadness in her eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You," he accused darkly.

"Son," She said as she nodded her head at him.

Damian reached behind him, seeking a weapon. A sword, a batarang, _something_ , to protect himself from this demon. The largest of the skeletons in his closet.

As it happened, he wouldn't need to fight her. Bruce was between them in an instant, black cape flapping with the movement.

"Please wait upstairs, Talia."

His tone brooked no argument and Damian glared as his mother swept past them to the stairs. Then, his rage was all for his father.

"Why was _she_ here?" His voice came out weaker than he'd expected, burdened by the weight of emotion, by the weight of the accusation. _Why did you_ allow _her to come here?_

Bruce grimaced, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She has a lead on where we might find your brother."

"But why is she _here?_ You could just have easily gotten the information without deigning to bring her to my home!"

"She is here because we need her here."

"You mean _you_ need her here. _We_ ," he gestured to the space between them, "Don't need her anywehere near _us_."

"She has been useful."

"She ordered my _murder_ ," Damian hissed. The image of his father grew blurry as he said the words. "She threw me away as though I meant nothing to her." He violently pulled away from his father's hand, turning away and allowing the tears to fall in the relative safety of the darkness.

"I know, son."

"Then _why?!"_ Damian choked, the force of the words tumbling from his mouth overwhelming to the small boy.

His father remained silent. The bats, far up above them, stirred restlessly. Some squeaked in protest to the noise from below, but none took flight.

Damian spun around, uncaring that his face was blotchy and red. Uncaring that all he really wanted to do was curl up in bed. Uncaring that his father's eyes were blurry as well. Damian launched himself at Batman, kicking and punching with all the force of his pent-up rage. "How dare you! How _dare_ you!" he screamed.

The boy continued to pound on his father's chest until a sob broke free. Then, Bruce's hands snaked out, latching onto Damian's fists and pulling the child ever-closer. "How _could_ you?" he sobbed.

Damian's fists unfurled, latching onto the bat symbol on his father's chest as the tears escaped. "You were supposed to…"

"I know son, I know."

Damian shook his head and attempted to pull away, but Bruce's arms were locked around him. Solid. _Safe_.

"You know _nothing_ , Father."

"I'm sorry, Damian."

And Damian did look up at that. Because his father _never_ said he was sorry. Not even when he really ought to. Bruce looked down at him sadly, lifting an arm to brush an errant curl from Damian's forehead. The gesture was so gentle that Damian almost couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch. Almost.

"If you're sorry then why? Why would you do this to me?"

A silence yawns between them for a long time. So long, that Damian opens his mouth to repeat himself when Bruce finally responds. "She has information on where Jason is. She's the only one who can help us bring him home."

Damian can almost accept that answer. But he doesn't. "But she doesn't need to give you that information _here._ "

Bruce shook his head, pulling the boy up into his arms as he walks over to the computer. "I'm sorry Damian," He said again. "I couldn't trust her to lead me elsewhere. I needed her somewhere I could keep an eye on her. Somewhere I would have access to a cell if she made a move against you or me."

The fight had left Damian's body, making him sag against his father. His nose settled into the crook of Bruce's neck, letting the wet tears trickle onto the suit. "Make her leave," Damian pleaded. Which felt wrong because Damian _never_ pleaded. He'd been a precocious, demanding child from the beginning. But he'd never stooped to begging, never asked for something to be done.

But he was asking now.

Bruce nodded. "Tim will be here shortly. Once he speaks with her, she will be gone."

"Promise me."

"I promise," Bruce lied.

…

Tim landed the helicopter without any issue. Still, he'd expected Bruce to be waiting for him at the top of the stairs, not Dick and Damian. And they weren't happy.

"Hello Robins One and Four," Tim said.

"Hey Timmy," Dick said cordially. Damian was noticeably silent beside him, face red and angry under the mask of Robin.

Tim opened his mouth to ask them what they were doing here, but was interrupted by the demon spawn.

"Talia's downstairs," Damian growled, anger evident in his voice. "When did you find out about it?"

Tim sighed. Sometimes genius came at a price, in this case it was two upset brothers. After the exhausting flight, the only thing that he wanted to do was sleep, not deal with the fallout of Bruce's actions. He held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. "Hey, Bruce called me in, same as you."

The younger boy scoffed, "Right, and you had no idea that she was in town."

"I didn't know _you_ would be in town," Tim stated blandly. It was times like these that he found himself missing Jason's abrasive attitude. He was a lot better at pretending things didn't matter.

"We need to borrow the copter, you mind?" Dick asked, putting a quelling hand on their little brother's shoulder.

"Bruce have a mission for you two?"

"No," Dick said. "He ordered us to stay downstairs."

Tim blinked. Once, twice. "So… we're _not_ listening to B anymore?"

"Not for tonight. Not after what he pulled."

"What exactly is that, Dick?"

"He didn't tell us. He should have told us. _You_ should have warned us," Dick accused.

" _I_ didn't need to tell you anything! This was B's decision, how was I supposed to know that you two were going to be in town? I would have expected him to keep _you_ ," Tim gestured to Damian, "as far away from that witch as possible."

"We don't hide things from one another," Dick said quietly.

"That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'I faked my death and didn't tell anyone'. Least of all me or Jason," Tim spat.

Dick's face hardened and he turned away, grabbing Damian by the shoulder as he went. Jason. Right. That's who they were all here for in the first place. He's the reason Talia is even here.

"Look," Dick started, "Bruce has his reasons. No matter how driven by grief he becomes, we are the robins. It's up to us to stick together."

"Except when it comes to me or Jason, right?"

Dick turned back to face him, eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't put words in my mouth, Tim."

"Then stop assuming I had anything to do with this!-"

"Enough!"

The voice boomed over the pavement and all three Robins stiffened at the call, turning three pairs of wild eyes on their erstwhile father.

"Talia has given me the information we need, she'll be leaving momentarily. In the meantime, Dick is right. We need to be united. Jason is a part of this family, like it or not, and I will not leave him to suffer for any longer," Bruce said, stepping forward and placing a firm hand on Tim's shoulder.

"Now I know I haven't always been honest with you-"

"Understatement of the year…" Dick interrupted.

Bruce glared at the eldest boy menacingly before continuing, " _But_ , I'm being honest now. I need you. Jason needs you. Can I count on you to come together?"

The three Robins looked at one another, the anger and suspicion draining away like water in a glass.

They nodded in unison.

"Good. Get downstairs and prep the Batplane. We're off to Italy."

…

"Mr. Wilson," A voice called from deep in the cavern. The darkness writhed around the green-cloaked man as he stepped from the shadows and into the expanse of the main cave system. "Are you prepared for your next mission?"

Slade smiled behind the mask of Deathstroke. "Absolutely," he said. "Where's your friend?"

The words hadn't even left his mouth when a large man stepped into the light. He was muscular, tall, and wrapped into an impressive suit. It was built for survivability. Blood red blotches formed a camo pattern up the complex Kevlar-knit of the chest piece, straight down to the armor of the legs. The chest piece itself was painted midnight blue, matching the dark color of the helmet above and the armored pieces covering the forearms are shins of the man. Glowing eyes glared out at Slade, completely uncompromising – certainly, there was some high-tech equipment inlaid to the helmet. The gauntlets as well, judging by the shine of the metal. Still, the most surprising aspect of the suit was the bat-like ears peaking over the crest of the hood. In the blackness of the night, the man would have easily been mistaken for Batman.

"Accounted for," Ra's said. "I want this project completed within the next twenty-four hours. Do you think you can handle that?"

Slade nodded, never taking his eyes off the man in the suit.

Ra's followed his gaze and smiled wickedly. "His name is Havoc. He will follow your orders, accomplish whatever you need."

"What's his real name?"

"There is only Havoc."

Something about the words made a tingle run up Slade's spine. Like the man was little more than a shell. An empty suit.

A ghost.

"Very well," Slade said, still watching the suit warily. "Consider it done."

…..

 **Sorry if Damian is a little OOC here, but I figure he's still a kid and he's got his own trauma and abandonment issues to work through. So... meh. and btw, yeah, that is the Arkham Knight suit. ;)**

 **Hope you enjoyed, comment if you have questions or just like the fic. :)**


	7. Jason Todd

**It's here. What's been happening to Jason? Spoiler alert: losing his goddamn mind. More to come. Thanks again to all my reviewers, y'all are awesome!**

 **trigger warning for scenes of torture, electrocution, and psychological manipulation! If you'd like to skip those parts, I'd recommend that you read only what's in italics - that's a little flashback to Jason and Bruce's vacation time, which is really the only thing that will be referenced later!**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 7: Jason Todd**

Jason has almost forgotten what it's like to wake up without pain. Hell, these days he barely gets any sleep at all. Out of all the different forms of torture he's endured, this is the worst. It's also one of the most deeply psychological. He can feel himself cracking.

Days. Without. Sleep.

The room he's trapped in is filled with artificial light, fluorescent and hard on the eyes. The light flashes on and off, in time with the squealing siren going off above. Each time the lights go off, Jason's eyes squeeze shut – hoping against hope to get just one moment of sleep. But then the lights are back, the siren echoes in his ear, and he's shocked into awareness. He's curled up in a fetal position, covering his ears against the constant strain. It's gotten so bad that he can barely see straight, everything is blurred to hell and shapeless shadows dance on the edge of his vision. Sometimes they are bat-shaped. Other times, there are hints of purple and green. After so many days – he's lost count at this point – his body shuts down periodically in what the medical community would call "microsleep". Moments in time where he is physically asleep, but not psychologically aware of it.

Jason can't help himself. A scream tears itself from his throat, as he holds tighter to his ears. the madness and pain clash into a smoldering mess. He doesn't even realize that the lights have stopped flashing until his ribs receive a painful kick. His ears are still ringing painfully like a sadistic, warped afterimage. Jason gasps for air as he's lifted from the ground, but he's too disoriented to get his feet moving beneath him and he falls straight back onto his face.

So, they lift him again, this time causing as much pain to his freshly healing ribs as possible. They bring him to the central cavern, the one where he usually faces all manner of torture. From waterboarding to flogging to hours spent naked in the freezer – it was all taking its toll. He was losing chunks of time, memory that was inexplicably _gone_. He couldn't remember his experiences very well, and at times there were just black holes where once he could remember being dragged to the post in the center of the room. That was not to say that he didn't feel what was happening to him. There were times, when he was allowed to sleep in his cell, that Jason would swear his body was alight with pain. At those moments, he could feel every wound, every brand, every whipping, every assault – and his nerve endings caught fire with the absolute agony of the past few months. He would scream until one of the guards got tired of it and knocked him out for real.

Beyond that, the evidence was still on his skin. The brand was the worst of all. The number 66 was emblazoned on his chest, near the shoulder, to mark him as the 66th trial, the only successful "participant". His body had become a patchwork of scars that no amount of the Lazarus Formula could heal. It still made shame and anger rise in him each time he looked at one of them – the images of what happened coming to him in waves. Psychologists called them "flashbulb" memories, when aspects of trauma brought back a perfect memory – how the ground felt as his blood dripped to the floor, the smell of it, the _experience_ of pain…

Now, though, he didn't have the luxury of allowing that pain to rule his mind. Because Ra's was standing before him. The first time in months that he had been an active agent in Jason's torment since the very beginning. Since the brand was pressed into his skin.

He's pushed to his knees in front of the centuries-old being, only to careen forward and puke on the man's shoes.

Yeah, sleep deprivation was a _bitch_.

And so was karma.

The man ignored the bile now eating through the leather of his fancy shoes, instead directing his questions to Ubu, his right-hand man. "How many days?"

"A full two weeks. Give or take."

"Good," Ra's said, a smile evident in his voice. He knelt before Jason, grabbing the boy's chin before thumb and forefinger in a grip that was surprisingly firm. "Tell me, child. Are you willing to accept my offer now?"

The offer. To become Ra's slave, to take over his armies and offer body and soul in exchange for the pain to stop. Jason closed his eyes. Did he want to take it? After all this time, these _months_? Hell yes, he did. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before he didn't have a choice in the matter. Soon he'd be too broken to refuse. And right now? With his mind broken into a million pieces and the fact that he was barely considered cognizant – Jason wanted to take it.

Needed to.

But if he did, there would be nothing left of him to save. And nothing, on heaven nor earth, would be able to bring him back from that.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. Go fuck yourself," He spat willfully, using bravado that he didn't feel.

Ra's smiled, putting more pressure on Jason's chin before pushing it to the side so that Jason's neck ached.

"You will join us. By the end of the day tomorrow, you will be one of us." He smiled cruelly. "And the best part is, you won't even realize what's happened."

Jason closed his eyes as the beating began.

…

" _This is weird, B. Even for you," Twelve-year old Jason Todd said as he set his bag on the old surfboard coffee table. The sound of the beach echoed in his ear and the humidity was near toxic. He preferred to drink his water, not breathe it, thank you very much. The air itself smelled of salt and seaweed, making him crinkle his nose. Miami at this time of year was stifling, almost 100-degree weather every day. Perfect for swimming and catching some sun, not that Jason had ever been near digs this rich. Or even out of Gotham, for that matter._

 _The house was about as expensive as a full year's worth of food and it included all the furnishings to match a beach theme. On the beach. Jason couldn't help but roll his eyes. Rich people, they just didn't understand._

" _It's a private beach, Jason. And we're on vacation," Bruce said, smiling down at the boy._

" _Right. And you're going to pretend that this wasn't completely random?"_

 _It was Bruce's turn to scrunch up his nose. "I… Alfred pointed out that I never took Dick on these sorts of things…"_

"' _These sorts of things'?"_

 _He gestured vaguely, looking uncomfortable. "Vacations. Anything other than the mission."_

" _what else is there? That's the whole reason you took me in." Jason said, wandering around the room and taking inventory – even the paperweights looked expensive. He continued his perusal for what must have been five minutes before he realized that Bruce was staring at him intently. "What?" He asked._

" _Is that why you think I took you in?"_

 _Jason's eyes narrowed as he turned back to look at the old man. "Well, isn't it? The position was open. You needed a Robin. I was just…" He tapered off, unsure. "There?"_

 _Bruce shook his head, almost sadly. "No, Jason. That wasn't it at all."_

" _Like I said. Weird," Jason said, walking into the next room and leaving Bruce to his own devices._

…

The dream disappears like vapor between his fingers. Sweat clings to his skin, sticky and uncomfortable. Jason closes his eyes, trying to catch the retreating mist, trying to remember that perfect week. It had been the first of only three 'vacations' that Bruce had ever taken him on. Usually the impromptu trips came on the heels of a visit from Dick – well, 'visit' was pushing it, more like a pissing contest. It had been a trying time, a time of growing and learning that Jason had at first scoffed at. It was a time when he and Bruce were still learning their roles in one another's lives. It was probably the first time that Jason had seen Bruce as more than a mentor, but he couldn't afford to think about them now.

Jason groaned as he pushed himself from the cold ground of his cell. He knew at once that he had been injected with the Lazarus Serum. The tingling in his bones was still there, familiar as the pit. He couldn't remember being dosed and he wracked his brain trying to recall a single detail after his meeting with Ra's. His memory had been getting worse in the past few months leaving gaps of missing time, all just empty space, black and fathomless.

The idea of losing chunks of time, that he may very well be going insane, made Jason's hands tremble. His heart was racing now and he would have given anything to clasp the edges of that dream one more time. Even after everything, all the pain and hurt between them – the abandonment, the emotional bullshit – Jason's mind still wandered to Bruce. The closest thing that he had ever had to a father. That's what fathers were supposed to do, right? Provide comfort and safety? In the absence of any other explanation, Jason allowed himself to hope. Allowed that small part of his subconscious to come forward, weak and emaciated as it was at this point.

Jason allowed himself to feel.

And it almost overwhelmed him. The depth of his fear, uncertainty, pain, abandonment – it surmounted to a mess. His mess. He slowly lowered himself back to the ground, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes and clutch his temples.

 _Please, B. If there were ever a time to come through for me…_

But his thought was interrupted as the reinforced glass of the cell was lifted and they came to begin again with their torturous activities. Ubu was first to grab him, and Jason had learned long ago not to fight when the larger man was involved. To begin, he was the size of a horse – large and muscular, with fists that hit like hooves.

"This will be the last session," Ubu said. "If you fail this, you're not worth keeping." There was a smile in his voice, exemplifying the fact that he really didn't care one way or another.

It took all of five minutes to travel through the narrow corridors to the main cavern. Jason could still see Batman and Nightwing standing behind that glass, like dark apparitions of despair. The guards walked him past the post in the center of the room and Jason can't help the silent sigh of relief that escapes between his chapped lips. Still, his destination wasn't any better.

The exam table.

Electric shock "therapy".

Jason grit his teeth as a thrill of fear raised gooseflesh along his back. He pulled back on the chains holding him, only to receive a harsh shove in the back. A punch to the jaw too, just for good measure. They hook him up to the table, the chains fitting into place easily after they remove his shirt. The table itself is freezing, like ice against his skin. He can't help but release a shiver, both from cold and fear.

Jason is far beyond trying to hide it. The guards know it anyway, they feed off of it. Dr. Young is beside him in a moment, preparing the Lazarus Serum in several syringes to his right. Jason let out a low whimper – because he knows, _knows_ , what the serum means. It means they will keep going until he's half dead. And then bring him back from the brink again and _again_ until the madness tears his mind apart.

"Ready, Doctor?" Ubu asks. Jason can see the battery, the various hookups that will soon burn his skin.

He's prepared in minutes. It shouldn't have taken that long, but Ubu draws out the process, so that by the time the machine is ready Jason is shaking and sweat is beading on his forehead. There's a hear monitor to his right, next to Dr. Hanson and the serum. He can hear the erratic thump-thump in his chest as Ubu draws near.

"Ready, little boy?" A rubber stick is placed in Jason's mouth.

He doesn't have the opportunity to answer. Electricity races through his system, tearing apart any and all thoughts that had been floating through his mind. He's grateful for the rubber as his jaw clenches uncontrollably, along with the rest of his muscles. A half-scream escapes around the bit and he closes his eyes against the pain. There's a fire somewhere in the room. There has to be, because Jason can smell something burning. Vaguely he notes that it must be him. _He's_ burning.

Someone is speaking, the word "Blue Origin" repeated several times as the process starts again and again until the syringes are gone – and so is Jason's sanity.

…

 _They'd been at the beach house for a week now, and Jason had yet to go into the water. Instead, he'd sat on the beach getting as red as an ugly ripe tomato. He truly enjoyed the feel of sand between his toes (even if it was more than a little uncomfortable in his shorts). He'd built his first sand fortress – not a castle, his was much cooler. And he had to admit that the weather was growing on him. He couldn't help thinking like a street rat, though. After all, a child could survive a winter in Miami much more easily than in the frigid north._

 _The people weren't bad either._

 _Floridians were generally kind, even if they were constantly rushing to and fro. He'd had several people call him sweetie and several more people offer him sunscreen in passing. It was… nice. Being so far from Gotham, very few recognized Bruce for the billionaire playboy that he was. Even fewer recognized Jason for the street rat that_ he _was – which was far beyond just_ refreshing _._

 _It was nice to be mistaken for father and son._

 _It was even better that Bruce never corrected any of them._

 _The food was cool too. Jason had happily picked out a variety of different restaurants to try as soon as they had landed. The first menu item he had been dying to try had been gator tail. Jason had been downright determined, and finally Bruce had given in. So, when the plate of Cajun-seasoned fried gator tail was placed before him, he'd practically been over the moon. The meat had actually been rather chewy, but Jason hadn't minded. If Bruce insisted on calling this a 'vacation,' then Jason was damn well going to take advantage of that and experience it all. It wasn't until the Sunday after they had arrived that it all came crashing down._

" _Alfred, I don't think this was a good idea." There's a pause as Alfred says something on the other end of the line. "He's settling in well enough. I just don't think either of us is suited for this. I'm not his father."_

 _Jason flinches when he hears the words, backing away slowly from the vent on the other side of the house. No, of course he's not Jason's father. Jason's father had been a mean drunk who hadn't minded giving his child a black eye or a bloody lip. Still, it had been a nice dream – to think that Bruce could care for him, like a father is supposed to care for their son. But that's all it had been._

 _A dream, a fantasy. Nothing more._

 _Jason doesn't hesitate. He grabs his backpack and leaves without a second glance._

…

Jason coughs as he comes out of the darkened space between dreams. He's feeling the notable effects of withdrawal and knows he's due for another dose of the serum soon. He clenches and unclenches his hand, noting the sizeable tremor. The serum can heal a lot of things, but the amount of nerve damage that Ubu had inflicted left his body in a constant state of misalignment. And this had been their third session with the electricity. He'll likely have this tremor in his hands for the rest of his life. He'll likely never be able to hold or aim a gun properly again.

Jason clenches his fist against the sudden tide of anger and hate that overcomes his heart. This will be yet another thing that's been stolen from him.

And these are the effects of only three "treatments" – all followed by blackouts of God only knew how much time. Thinking back on those moments, the dark stains in his memory, draws blinding pain to his temples and a startled hiss from his mouth. It's too much all at once and he allows the fragments to drift away, back into the recesses of his mind. Silent tears streak down Jason's face as he tries desperately to hold onto what little sanity he has left.

It's good that he's been allowed to sleep. He supposed that counted as a plus.

Jason looked into the water pooled at the edge of his cell. The man that stared back was unrecognizable to him. The brand, bright and painful on his chest, shimmered in the half-light. There were new scars on his face, on his neck – all over, really – and he had to wonder if this was really his reflection… or if the man staring back at him was the _real_ Jason. The very idea only intensified the trembling in his fingers and ragged sobs escaped from his chest.

There's no one to call out to anymore. There's no hope. Bruce isn't coming, and that thought is just as damning as when he realized it for the first time four and a half years ago, when he'd died.

"Do you finally understand, boy?" Ra's words cut through his psychosis. The words are like a cold caress, leaving a trail of goosebumps traveling up his body. "Do you accept my offer?"

Jason took one last look at the man in the water.

"I accept."

…

 **I'm sorry Jaybird. It'll be fixed though! Kind of. Maybe. Next chapter is going to be intense... Jay and the family finally clash!**

 **Please review, let me know what you think!**


	8. Get Out

**A/N: Hey guys! Thank you to everyone who commented on this fic, I really appreciate all the reviews, they basically keep me motivated. ^_^**

 **There's a note at the end of this fic about possible upcoming stories and AUs that have been floating around, but until then, enjoy!**

 **Chapter 8: Get Out**

" _Alfred, I don't think this was a good idea." He said, trying to tear off the loose string hanging on the cuff of his shirt._

" _I believe this was exactly what the two of you needed. Master Jason needs to learn his place in this family for the two of you to start working on the same wavelength. How is he doing?" Came the disjointed voice of his oldest friend and father-figure._

" _He's settling in well enough. I just don't think either of us is suited for this. I'm not his father… I don't know how to be a part of his life without replacing what he lost."_

" _Might I suggest, Master Bruce, that you stop seeing Master Jason as something that needs fixing." The old man's voice is tight on the other end of the line, like the judgement is flowing through the phone._

 _Bruce made a face, even knowing that Alfred couldn't see him. "I'm not trying to fix him."_

" _Then why do you keep expecting him to be Master Dick?"_

 _Bruce flinched, shrinking away from the phone. Yeah, Alfred definitely knew him too well. "I just… Jason needs so much_ more _than Dick. I want to be there for him, but I don't… I'm not sure how to."_

"… _And_ that _is why I suggested the vacation to begin with. You said to me that you felt disconnected from the boy, in a way that you never experienced with Master Dick. Now is your chance to close the gap."_

 _Bruce sighed over the phone, mulling over the old butler's words. "I have to admit, I've been learning a lot about him since we got here." He smiled, recalling their latest trip to get that gator tail that Jason had so been looking forward to. The boy was constantly preoccupied with food, likely a holdover from his time on the streets, and he could really eat when he wanted to. Bruce's vacation budget could attest to that. "The more I learn the more I feel like I have a solid place in his life. Beyond just Batman and Robin."_

" _I'm very proud to hear it, Master Bruce. Very proud indeed." A bang sounded from just beyond his door and Bruce stood abruptly from the king-sized bed._

" _Jason?" He called, standing for a moment and opening the door to peak into the living area._

" _Master Bruce? Are you quite alright?"_

 _Bruce moved further out of the room, not answering the older man just yet. "Jason?" he asked again. Step by step, Bruce made his way to the other side of the villa. Once there, he knocked on the door to the boy's room. The door was ajar, and Bruce stepped inside, fully expecting to see the boy sitting at his desk or pacing as he was wont to do._

 _But all Bruce could see was the window, open and flapping in the wind. A thrill of fear raced down Bruce's spine as he noted that Jason's backpack was missing too._

" _I'm going to have to call you back, Alfred." He closed the phone before the old man even had a chance to respond._

….

It was night by the time the Batplane finally landed off the coast of Sicily. Talia was waiting for them when they exited the plane, much to Damian's chagrin.

"Beloved," Talia greeted Bruce. The sound of the ocean was nearly deafening, and the darkness kept all but the most fearless travelers off the open sea. As Bruce looked out over the raging waters, he could see only one or two lights in the distance. Perhaps a fisherman hoping to make a big catch before heading ashore. Perhaps a boat of refugees from the coast of Africa, as was frequently the case. So many people fled their homeland in search of safe harbor – only to find the open waters in-between Italy and Africa to be far more dangerous than expected. Many never made it to shore, often attempting to swim from downed boats only to drown when fishermen refused to take them onboard. It was illegal in Italy to pull a drowning refugee from the water, a law which frequently cost the lives of many of the escaping men, women, and children. Bruce grimaced at the thought.

"My men have finished securing the lab. We found a man that knows where Jason is. Or, where he _was_." Talia said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Where?" He asked, coming to stand between Talia and his boys.

She nodded in the direction of a large white concrete compound, "Follow me."

The lab itself was filled to the brim with caged animals. They screeched and howled endlessly as the little group entered their domain. There was a clear path straight down the middle of the room and Bruce followed close behind Talia, prepared should there be a trap. Now, seeing the creatures more closely, he realized that all of them were horribly deformed. Some were bigger than they should be, but didn't have the bone structure to accommodate such mass – they lay broken and squirming at the bottom of their cages. Others had extra limbs or heads, hideously miss portioned. He heard a grunt of disgust from behind him before Damian appeared at his elbow.

"They look like my clones. The ones that _she_ created." The boy said quietly, still glaring with open hostility at the woman leading them.

"I'm afraid it gets worse from here. You may want to stay behind, my son." Talia's voice was cool as winter when she replied.

"-Tt- as if."

"Do not say that I did not warn you, Damian." She opened the door before them and Bruce couldn't help the trickle of sweat that rushed down his spine at the sight.

The room glowed an effervescent green as they stepped inside. There were hundreds of rows of glass cases, all filled with glowing liquid and biomass – humanoid, with familiar features. Jason. All of them were Jason. All horribly disfigured, just like the animals from the previous room. Dick gasped as he and Tim entered the room, looking at each container with revulsion. In some places, a teal-green orb stared back sightlessly at them. In others, the face was completely devoid of features, with only a mouth or a nose or a single eye. Dick made a strangled noise before rushing to the corner of the room to empty the contents of his stomach.

"What... What is this?" Bruce asks, not truly knowing if he wanted the answer.

"This is my life's work." A man on the other side of the room said. He was dark skinned and wore glasses that extenuated the brown of his eyes, even though they reflected strangely in the verdant glow. His accent was clearly that of a native, and the little lilt in his voice confirmed for Bruce that English was not his first language.

"My name is Dr. Giulio Hanson. I am a geneticist that has been working on your son's… unusual cell structure. These were the failed specimens." He said the word 'specimens' with a note of distaste, like one might comment on a bug that's landed in their milk.

"You have… successful ones?" Tim asked from Bruce's side, notably calm in the face of something so despicably evil.

The doctor nodded, gesturing to his left, where yet another door stood. Tim approached cautiously, opening the door with a note of trepidation. The family followed and stared at what lay beyond.

Over a hundred more containers were lined up against the walls of the lab, but the glow from these containers was lighter, more aquamarine than sickly emerald. They were all exact replicas of Jason. They were all bald, and curled in on themselves with only ventilators feeding them nutrients – like a macabre visage of a mother's womb. Bile rose, thick and unwanted in the back of Bruce's throat and he thought he may have to join Dick in the corner… only Dick wasn't in the corner anymore. He was marching toward the doctor.

"You sick fuck!" He all but screamed. Dick's fists were around the man's neck and he pulled him close so that they were nose-to-nose. Fury radiated off of the younger man like a palpable heat wave. "Tell me where my brother is or I swear to _God_ I will make you wish you were one of these little bastards!"

"Mr. Al Ghul instructed me to-"

"Do you think I give a _fuck_ what 'Mr. Al Ghul' wants?" The man was raised a good foot off the ground and he gasped for air as fear finally appeared in the weathered face.

"I can lead you to him!" The man cried, raising his hands to block his face. "He's still in Gotham! My collegues have continued their experiments on-"

Before anymore could be said, a shot rang out and blood sprayed out the back of Dr. Hanson's head as a bullet tore through his skull. The doctor died instantly. Dick dropped the now useless body and rolled away just as Bruce yelled, "Move!"

"I see you've found my employer's laboratory… good for you." A disjointed voice said at the entrance of the room. Deathstroke, Bruce recognized. But it wasn't the cold-blooded mercenary that caught his eye, no, it was the man accompanying him. The man wore a blue, red, and black camo suit and a dark helmet with – were those _bat_ ears? They were. Dark and ominous. He was large, almost as tall as Bruce himself, maybe only short a few inches. He was holding a sniper rifle, looking deadly as ever with the burning gaze of the helmet. "A pity."

Dick stood, eying the mercenary. "Deathstroke." His eyes traveled to the other man. "who's your new friend?"

The man glanced over his shoulder briefly. "An… associate. His name is Havoc." There was a smile clear in his voice. "Maybe I got tired waiting for you to pick a side, little Robin."

Dick grit his teeth, but anyone with a practiced eye could see that he had gone pale. Bruce knew their history, the antagonism, the threats, all of it. He had been afraid for his son for many years, supported the boy when he'd been unsure and called for help. He knew that Dick was afraid of this man, no matter how deeply he tried to bury that instinct. Bruce moved subtly in front of his first Robin. It wasn't difficult. Bruce had become accustomed to protecting his protégés, ever since they were small children who needed that protection. Needless to say, it was a hard habit to break, even after each Robin had grown and didn't need it anymore. Behind him, he saw that Dick was falling into much the same defensive pattern in front of Damian and Tim – putting himself in harm's way before his younger partners could be touched.

"Relax, boys. Our orders were to bring you in alive. No need for bloodshed. Well," His one eye stared pointedly at Dr. Hanson, where a pool of crimson was slowly spreading. "Any more bloodshed, that is."

Bruce took a step forward – only for the focused red beam of the sniper rifle to be leveled at his head. The helmeted figure was intent on him, watching every minute movement. This man was well trained, and Bruce knew if he made a wrong move, the man wouldn't hesitate to fire.

"Look around you, Wilson. This place… it's evil." Bruce said, raising his hands to placate the man.

"Evil is a vacillating word, especially when enough money is attached to it – rather like a price tag," Deathstroke said. "Get mov- _hnh"_ his words were interrupted when a high-heeled foot connected with his helmet.

Slade swept forward, rolling with the blow. "Don't just stand there! Fight her!" He yelled at the other man – Havoc – before the sniper was trained away from Bruce and onto Talia. But She was already moving, already following Deathstroke and putting her in too close of range to make a clear shot. Bruce seized the moment, surging forward and joining the fray just as more men in that same strange camo ran into the room.

What followed was utter chaos.

Dick and Damian stayed close to one another as they engaged with the enemy, using formations and tactics that could only be learned through years of partnership and training. And they were good. Like a true Batman and Robin. Bruce felt cold fear grip his heart when one of the mercenaries flew forward with a Taser flashing in his hand – he was going to get Damian. Bruce moved forward, but was suddenly flooded with enemies. "Damian!" He yelled.

But he needn't have worried. Talia was right there, grabbing the merc and breaking his kneecap with a swift kick. "You dare raise a hand to my child?" She spat, turning like a whirlwind of fury to fend off the next attack. Slade was on her in a minute, forcing her to focus on him alone. But the danger had passed, Dick was there and Damian was safe for the time being. It allowed Bruce to focus on his own battle. Against Havoc.

Havoc had released the sniper rifle in favor of twin blades, ripping through the air with ferocity. He was definitely trained, and trained well. There was something oddly familiar about the young man's movements – but every time he thought he recognized a pattern, Havoc would jerk or switch tactics abruptly, throwing him off. It was like fighting a robot… Or a clone. Bruce's eyes widened. Could _that_ be it? Could this be one of the clones from the other room?

Bruce grit his teeth, funneling his anger and grief into his next attack. Jab, twist right – duck. Take the next hit in order to get closer, level a blow to the man's sternum. Sweep his legs out from under him – but Havoc is good, pushes up and twists so that Bruce is almost taken down as he closes in. He hears a cry coming from Talia and sees that she's fallen – and Deathstroke is right there on top of her. There's a wet snap as he breaks her ankle and she screams, though it sounds more from anger than pain. Bruce turns, intending to make his way to her, but he's interrupted by a flash of light.

The fight around him slows and then stops as the brilliant flash of red continues and the blaring of a siren calls overhead.

ATTENTION, ATTENTION. ALL PERSONELL EVACUATE NOW. SELF-DESTRUST SECUENCE HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. LAB WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN T-MINUS FIVE MINUTES.

The siren continued to blare incessantly, deafeningly loud. Combat around them stopped as all of the mercenaries looked to Slade for direction.

"Fall Back, you fools!" He said, though anger is evident as he backs away from Talia. The mercenaries flee the room and the ensuing chaos makes it hard to see one another. Bruce takes only a moment to lift Talia from the ground before he starts running. Dick and Damian are right behind him, and as he looks, he sees Tim rushing toward them from the computers lining the back of the compound. He smiles as he falls in behind them. "Found a big red button, figured I'd press it."

"Well done, Timmy!" Dick said, smiling back at his brother.

"We're not out of the woods yet, boys. Stay focused." Bruce said, hefting Talia in his arms.

There's a brief moment, just as they exit the lab, when Havoc stops, falling behind Deathstroke to stare mutely at Bruce and the others. It passes in an instant, but Bruce notes it and files it away for later.

"Get to the Batplane!"

The Robins do as they are told and they rush up the platform quickly. They settle inside the plane, putting Talia in the medbay at the back, and begin the takeoff sequence just as the first shockwave rocks through the island. Once they are high above the fiery explosion below, Bruce puts the plane on autopilot.

"Ok, million-dollar question… Who the hell was wearing the suit?"

"His form was familiar, but he was jerky, and did you notice how he held the sniper?" Bruce asked, turning to his eldest son.

He wasn't disappointed as Dick nodded. "He was trembling. Like he couldn't control the gun. Yet he fired true, maybe a psychological thing more than a neuromuscular one?"

"Yes." Bruce's fingers traced the stubble forming on his chin as he continued to pace.

"You think it could be Jason?" Talia asked from her place at the back of the plane.

"I don't know." Bruce said seriously. "I don't think Jason would willingly turn against us, it could be one of those clones. Or a robot of some sort."

Tim made a noise, clearing his throat. "Then that begs the question… where is the real Jason Todd?"

"The doctor said he was still in Gotham, but how could that be?" Dick asked, frowning from his seat in the corner. "We tore that city apart looking for him."

"Perhaps," Talia said, reaching a hand out to Bruce for help standing. "I may be of service." With Bruce's help, she hobbled over to the computer inlaid in the piloting system. She removed a flash drive from her breast pocket and plugged it into the computer. "I had my men make a copy of the computer system from the compound. There were files on it going back six months."

"Back to when Jason first disappeared," Tim said, eyes riveted to the screen.

Talia nodded, typing in several commands. "It will take a while to decrypt the information, but I believe that this information will lead us to Jason."

Bruce nodded, a thrill of excitement racing through his blood. This was the lead they had been searching for, the one they had needed for so long. _We're coming, Jason. Just hold on a little longer, son…_

…

 **A/N: Hey guys, so I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! Next up, the Bat clan finds some interesting evidence… interesting in that it will be hard to watch… sorry Jay baby.**

 **In other news, I've been working on a few different plot bunnies lately and I wanted to get y'all's opinion on a few of them. If anyone is interested in the following, shoot me a PM or leave a review, because I'm not sure yet which one is going to be following All in the Blood.**

 **Zombie AU? – basically a Walking Dead style zombie apocalypse and the harshness of survival… but with the Bat family. I've got chapter one done, but I'm not sure if I'll continue it or not.**

 **Marvel/DC crossover featuring Jason Todd and Laura Kinney probably the avengers and/or the X-men too, but idk yet either.**

 **Not an AU per se, but JasmineTiger broached the idea of an interesting investigation into addiction and the psychological process behind withdrawal – featuring the Bat family and the various Robins. Might end up being a continuation of this fic once it's completed, but idk yet.**

 **Not really an alternate universe, but I've been considering rebooting my older fics so that they stay relevant. I've already been working on the Prison Au, but I haven't started on my other works yet.**

 **Anywho! Hope you enjoyed, drop me a review or a PM if you want, if not then happy reading!**


	9. Memories Fade

**Well, this chapter has actually been broken down into two since I have a lot more editing to do one the second part and decided to just release what I have just so y'all aren't waiting another week. :D**

 **Please let me know what you think!**

 **Chapter 9: Memories Fade**

 _His feet had started to hurt by the time he made it to the pier. The backpack weighed heavily on his shoulders, though not necessarily because of what was in it. His heart had been beating a mile a minute since escaping through the window and in all that time, he'd traveled two and a half miles on foot, purchased a bus ticket out of the state, and then run toward the ocean to wait for the eminent arrival of the Greyhound that would take him away. Since arriving in Florida, Jason had grown to enjoy the calming sound of the waves collapsing on shore. The sights and smells of the beach were so very different from those of Gotham that they offered a new, fresh start for the boy. And a fresh start was exactly what he needed now._

 _He clicked "ignore" on his cell phone when Bruce's image popped on screen for the fifteenth time that night._

" _I'm not his father," Bruce had said._

 _The words had cut him like razor wire, but deeper than anything physical ever could. He'd already cried, despite how immature it may have made him look. He rubbed at his face now, determined not to be mistaken for the child that he was. If Bruce didn't want him, then Jason sure as hell didn't_ need _him. Jason knew he'd been right on the money when they had first arrived – he was nothing more than a soldier to Bruce, a prized dog of war in a never-ending battle. He was ashamed to admit that he had expected more, that he'd been hoping the older man actually saw him as something more._

 _He'd been hoping that Bruce saw him as his son._

 _But that had been a childish dream. If the streets of Gotham had taught him anything at all, it was that you couldn't trust anyone. Not even 'family'. Not that Jason could ever say that he'd truly had one to begin with. Willis Todd had never been more than a sperm donor. Catherine… she'd been something once. She'd shown Jason what it meant to feel love and compassion, only to throw it all away when life had become too difficult._

 _Then Bruce had come along._

 _Bruce had been everything that Jason had expected a father to be. He'd never beaten Jason, which was definitely a step up. He'd encouraged Jason to think about the future, something that no one else had ever done. On the streets, if you asked a kid what they want to be when they grow up, often enough you'd get a nasty look and a muttered "If I grow up." It wasn't sarcasm, either. Many children, Jason included, had seen too much real-life death and violence that reaching adulthood seemed uncertain. For most of them, that would likely always be the case. Bruce had been the first one to point out that the future could be something that you plan for, something that you can actively change and predict. Jason had taken those words to heart and made plans, had dreamed of what he wanted to be (as rapidly changing as any child's dreams would be). Still, every dream had always secretly included Bruce. Included the idea that Bruce, Alfred, and maybe even Dick Grayson, could become the family that Jason had never had. The nebulous and often changing future could be bright, even happy for Jason._

 _But not now._

 _He'd been thoroughly put in his place. Like a whipped dog, Jason had learned his lesson. This wasn't about family. It was about the mission._

 _Nothing more, nothing less._

" _Stupid." Jason muttered to himself, not really noting where he was headed until he ran into a solid mass._

 _At first, he'd been expecting to look up and see Bruce. He'd even opened his mouth with a curse in mind for the old man. But then he heard the laughter, dark and sinister above him._

 _It was a group of men. All muscular and with their shirts off in the evening heat. They looked raggedy, like they'd spent too long in the sun and it had fried their brains. "Where you runnin' to, boy?" One of the larger, more muscular men said. He had blonde, shoulder length hair that was partially hidden under a red bandana._

" _That backpack looks awfully heavy for such a tiny kid," The fat one from the back said. He was bald and the moonlight glinted off his head._

" _Why don't we relieve you of it?" Asked a tall, lanky man from the right. He was chuckling softly, but as he reached for Jason, the boy's reflexes kicked in. Jason was off the sandy boards of the pier in a second, landing a sold blow to the elbow of the offending arm. He heard a crack and knew he'd knocked it out of joint._

" _Son-of-a-bitch!" Lanky yelled, withdrawing the hand and cradling it in his uninjured arm, close to his chest._

 _Jason smirked. "You have no idea how much I've been needing a punching bag."_

 _He didn't get the chance to say anything else, or even move into a better fighting stance before something heavy rammed into him. Jason's head smacked the wooden boards with a loud_ thwap! _And Jason swore he saw_ _stars. They were on him in an instant, throwing punches to his exposed stomach and face. It took Jason a moment, but he was able to curl in on himself in an attempt to protect his vital organs – just as Bruce had taught him._

" _If you're ever caught in the open, or you're in a dangerous place, protect yourself as best you can. Hold them off, and I will find you."_ _Bruce had told him over and over, drilled it into his head every night before they left the cave._

" _What if I can't wait, or I'm in real trouble? Shouldn't I at least be able to fight them off?" Jason had asked_

" _There will come a time when you can't. When your options are gone, and you are in real danger. Trust me, Jason. I_ will _find you."_

 _The words had been a comfort back then, and Jason truly believed that Bruce would always come for him. Now though? Jason had run away. He'd left without so much as a word or note to tell Bruce where he'd gone._ Stupid! _Jason thought bitterly as another kick to the ribs had him gasping for breath._

 _And then, the blows stopped. Jason's eyes were closed tightly against the onslaught, but now they opened hesitantly. He couldn't see anything but the ocean at first, but as he looked around he noted that the sounds of fighting could be heard. The men were fighting someone else. Someone much bigger and much stronger than Jason._

Bruce _._

 _Jason gasped as he tried weakly to lift himself off the ground. Everything hurt. It wasn't the worst beating he'd ever had, but certainly the worst since he'd become Robin – and that was saying something. His head was spinning as he got to his knees, but he was determined to help Bruce if he could. Jason reached up to feel for the bump he was sure was growing on the back of his head – only for his fingers to come away slick with crimson._

Shit _, he thought sourly. He got to his feet unsteadily, only to be grabbed around the neck and pulled upward._

 _The dizziness intensified as Jason looked down to realize that he was dangling over the side of the pier. The waves below were turbulent and made the sound of a thunderclap as they slammed into the wood pilings. Jason grabbed hold of the hand that was holding him suspended over the water, real fear taking hold in the pit of his stomach. "B-Bruce!" He choked out weakly._

 _He had the man's attention instantly. Bruce's eyes swiveled to meet his and he dropped the thug he'd been about to punch. Jason realized dimly that the same terror he was feeling was reflected in his father-figure's eyes._

" _Stop it now, or I drop the kid over the edge!" Bandana-head yelled. He shook Jason as he said the words, eliciting a sharp yelp from the boy. Jason's fingers scraped and clawed at the hand around his neck, while his face grew red. Tears escaped at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to get a breath around the pressure on his throat. He couldn't think. Why couldn't he_ think?

 _Bruce held his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. "Let the boy go," he demanded, eyes never leaving Jason's face._

" _Lenny, Paulo, you guys okay?" Bandana-head asked. The two other thugs held up their thumbs shakily as they got to their feet and quickly backed away from Bruce. They didn't hesitate to run, their heavy footfalls reverberating through the whole pier._

 _Bruce took a step, still with his hands raised. "Let the boy_ go _," he repeated, this time with more menace. With more of the Bat in his voice._

 _Bandana-head just smiled. "With pleasure."_

 _And then Jason was falling. The momentary relief at being able to breath quickly overshadowed by absolute, bone-chilling terror._

 _Because Jason had lived on the streets all his life._

 _He'd never_ needed _to learn how to swim._

 _He hit the water a moment after the thought entered his head. The force of his fall jarred every bone in his body and the pain within was mirrored by the new pain without. He tumbled down, down, down until finally he was so far underwater that Jason could barely make out what was up and what was down. His oxygen-starved brain forced him to take a breath, only to get a mouthful of salty water. He flailed weakly, trying to push himself to the surface only to find his body completely unresponsive and uncoordinated. Terror rushed through him as he realized he would never make it to the surface. That fear had him closing his eyes as the undercurrent dragged him toward the pilings. Vaguely he could feel the vibrations of something hitting the water, but all thought was chased from his mind when the expected impact finally came._

 _Jason's arms hit the wooden pilings of the pier before his head shot forward and did the same. He could almost see the blood and wondered vaguely if he'd be eaten by a whale – like Jonah from that story his mother had told him when he was younger. Jason didn't know when his eyes had closed, only that he was drifting downward and that there was no air left in his small body. He let go, allowing himself to be dragged back by the current as it wound up for another attempt at crushing him against the piling._

 _But it never happened._

 _Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled upward, against the current._

" _I'm so sorry, Bruce," Jason thought in the darkness before his light faded and then died._

….

 _It hadn't been hard to track Jason down. If the boy planned on getting out of town, a bus ticket would be the only way to do it this late. Additionally, pedestrians had spotted the boy as he wandered to and from the station. He'd spoken to the cashier, hurriedly asking where the boy had gone. The momentary relief at learning that the next bus would not leave for another two hours was quashed at hearing where the boy had gone._

 _The pier. A place that was barely lit up at night. A place where local gangs liked to hang out at night. He huffed in exasperation. Dick had never done anything this stupid. He'd never just taken off in the middle of the night because he was angry about something. Dick Grayson had been open, talked to Bruce about his issues. Jason just left._

 _It was infuriating. It – it was…_

 _Terrifying._

 _Because even if he didn't want to take the place of the boy's parents, he knew his heart had already latched onto the boy. Perhaps it was in part because Jason was constantly placed in a position where he needed Bruce's protection. As Batman, it was his duty to take the heavier hits. To make sure that his Robin didn't have to._

 _But Alfred had been right on the money. Jason was always frustrated with him when he tried to explain his role as Robin. Like he always expected more, something Bruce couldn't provide for the boy. Or maybe something he didn't_ want _to provide for the boy. He could never take the place of Jason's parents. It wasn't right. He'd never even presumed to do so with Dick, how could he behave any differently with Jason? Still, Bruce couldn't help his paternal nature – and Jason had become a son in his mind, more so than Dick had been. Even if he couldn't be his father._

 _Now, though, as he approached the pier, Bruce's heart started pounding._

 _There were three men on the pier, kicking something,_ someone _. "Jason," Bruce whispered._

 _He broke into a run, not even caring that he was supposed to be in the persona of Bruce Wayne. He lifted the first man – a lanky man whose arm was dangling awkwardly to his side – and threw him to the side. He caught the oncoming fist from the second, man – a rotund but muscular fellow – and threw a punch of his own._

 _A fight ensued, but these men were clearly outmatched and they all knew it. He chanced a glance over their shoulders to see Jason struggling to come to his knees, his hand came away red when he touched his head, but otherwise he did not appear severely injured. Relief at having found the boy was quickly overshadowed when the two men in front of him swung at the same time in an attempt to overpower him. He grunted as they scored a hit. Then he gave one back, twice as hard. He lifted the larger of the two off the ground, pulling back to knock him out -_

" _B-Bruce!"_

 _The voice was weak, and small, but it turned Bruce's blood cold. He dropped the man he'd been about to punch and stared into the terrified eyes of Jason Todd._

" _Stop it now or I drop the kid over the edge!" The group's leader said. He was holding Jason by the neck, dangling the boy over the railing of the pier. Bruce's heart picked up in speed as Jason struggled for air, scrabbling at the thick hand holding him in place. Tears streaked down the boy's reddening face._

 _Rage, overwhelming and absolute overcame Bruce. He wanted nothing more than to destroy each and every one of them. But Jason was counting on him. Jason, who was gasping for breath. Who had called his name. Who needed him now more than ever._

 _Bruce raised his hands, allowing the two thugs to get up. "Let the boy go," Bruce said._

" _Lenny, Paolo, you guys okay?" The man asked, shaking Jason ever so slightly. The boy released a low cry and Bruce's eyes narrowed._

 _The two thugs raised their thumbs before beating a hasty retreat as the blonde in the bandana turned back to Bruce._

" _Let the boy_ go _," He growled, taking a menacing step forward._

 _But the man just smiled. Bruce had a moment of awareness, a second before the blonde let go. A moment in which his heart nearly beat out of his chest._

 _Bruce had never been so afraid in his life._

 _And Jason? Jason was falling. The boy hit the water just as Bruce reached the railing. The darkness of the night meant that the boy disappeared in an instant below the turbulent waves. "Jason!" He called, desperate to see the boy surface._

 _He didn't. And the man in the bandana was on Bruce in a second, forcing him to the ground just as he was readying to jump in after the boy. Bruce growled in frustration, punching the man with enough force to break his nose with a sickening crack. The blonde cried out as blood spurted from the wound. But Bruce was already moving, grabbing the railing and pitching himself over. As he splashed into the water he called again. "Jason!"_

 _He heard a sickening crack behind him and turned to see a flash of Jason's red shirt below the water as the current dragged him away from the piling and was winding up to crush him back into it. Bruce dived down, catching the boy around the middle. The boy was limp as Bruce fought against the current, pulling the boy toward the shore. There was a sickening cloud of red around Jason's head as the boy bled into the waters. Bruce swore softly, fighting twice as hard to get to shore._

 _Vaguely, he wished he'd brought his shark repellant._

 _His feet touched sand after what seemed like hours. Bruce hefted the boy in his tired, trembling arms as they reached the shore. He fell to the beach in a fit of exhaustion, careful to keep the boy safely at his side. Bruce laid his head to the boy's chest, desperate for a breath or a heartbeat. None were forthcoming._

 _He began chest compressions, pumping the small chest and trying to expel the water from the boy's lungs. "Please Jason, Please…" He repeated the words like a mantra with each pump._

 _It occurred to him that this vacation may have been the most dangerous experience they'd had – on patrol or otherwise._

 _And then Jason was gasping, turning to expel the water from his lungs. Bruce breathed, letting the fear slip away with the waves. He placed a hand on Jason's back to rub soothing circles as the boy coughed and sputtered into the sand. When he had gotten most of the water out, he simply began to tremble. The boy shook violently, sobbing into the sand._

" _It's alright, son. It's going to be alright," he said softly, just over the roar of the ocean._

 _Jason was still bleeding, from a wound on the back of his head and now a gash from his forehead. His arms were cut up from where he impacted with the pier. That's why it was no surprise a minute later when Jason collapsed against him. Bruce pulled the boy into his arms, holding him close before lifting him from the sandy beach._

…

Bruce's mind kept pulling him back to that moment on the beach, the day when he'd decidedly become a father for the second time. Thinking back, Bruce realized just how foolhardy he had been. He hadn't been mature enough to take on the responsibility of a child. Bruce had tried. Had felt the emotional connection of parent to child, but he'd never actually been able to show that emotion. Looking back, he wished he'd tried harder with the boy. Alfred had called it an "inability to connect," but Bruce didn't agree with that… it was more like an inability to _display_ that connection. Jason had been his son. Just as Dick and Tim and Damian were.

Then, Jason had been taken from him.

He could still feel the heat of that explosion and the gaping hole it had left in his chest when he'd lifted his son from the rubble. The hopelessness with which he had reached out to check for a pulse his sensors in the cowl already told him wasn't there. It had been the same as that day on the beach.

Now, staring at the screen before him in abject horror, Bruce found himself with that same feeling.

They were video files.

Labeled by day, by hour, by session.

And all of them displayed Jason undergoing a different form of torture.

He had to stop the feed several times under the guise of "investigative insight," but really he just couldn't stand the screams any longer. Dick and Tim were right behind him, enduring every minute of the videos with him. It didn't help, to have them there, but Bruce could appreciate that nothing would be missed.

He didn't think he could bear to watch the vivid scenes more than once.

Jason, being electrocuted. Being whipped. Being _branded_. Being waterboarded. Being beaten by a crowbar. Being buried alive on several occasions.

Bruce had to pause after each new form was introduced. And then reintroduced. He closed his eyes against another scream – his son's voice ragged and hoarse.

He saw the scene as Jason was pushed into the dirt. Saw himself and Nightwing walk away from what appeared to be a simple glass divider.

Bruce remembered that moment, but on his end, it had been nothing more than a collapsed entrance. He had commented to Nightwing that it had seemed strange to have a cave-in so far into the cavern system. Dick had agreed, but they had both still moved on – without a second glance – determined to find Jason when all along he had been just a few steps away. Suffering.

"No," he whispered forlornly. "How could we have allowed this…"

Dick stood abruptly, walking away from the screens as Jason was dragged away from the camera. Ra's had been incredibly thorough. He'd documented everything. Instructed the camera to record when they harvested experimental material from Jason's body – to make the clones – only to allow the pieces to re-grow as the "Lazarus Serum" was reapplied to Jason's bloodless veins. Bruce grit his teeth. This was failure.

He had failed Jason too many times. Too utterly to ever really come back from it. But he had to try. Jason would always be the child that he had raised, the boy who had forced himself into Bruce's heart. And right now, Jason needed him. Needed all of them.

There was a crash at the back of the plane ad Bruce turned his head to see Dick's fist lying useless against the shell of the plane. His son pulled back and hit the wall again. "No," he whispered. "Ra's did all of this… for what? Revenge?"

Dick's eyes were shining with unshed tears as he looked back at his adoptive father. "Why?" he asked.

"To fulfill a purpose," Came the small voice of Damian. All eyes turned to where the boy sat at the back of the plane, near his mother. "He always has an agenda. He wouldn't do this without a goal in mind."

Talia nodded from her place beside the boy. "I believe he seeks a weapon – something programed to follow orders the way the League has never been able to."

Bruce shook his head. "This," he pointed to the screen which stood frozen on the image of Jason in agony, "was personal. He could easily have chosen any fighter, dumped him into a pit, and created a weapon. This is something else."

"It is revenge," Talia whispered.

"For what?" Dick asked, approaching her with more than a little menace in his tone.

"Jason has foiled his plans on numerous occasions. I went against my father's instructions and brought his mind back. Jason was marked for death just for that. And then with the All Caste…"

"Wait, the what?" Dick asked, looking to Bruce for information.

It was Tim who answered, "It's where he trained after he came back. He said he was the first human to survive the process in centuries."

Dick looked taken aback. When had Tim and Jason become so close? almost like... brothers. And Dick had to look away at the thought. Because, if he were being honest, when had been the last time he'd reached out to their wayward brother – besides to accuse him of a crime? Dick couldn't think of an answer, and it shamed him. He was supposed to be the big brother here. He was supposed to be there for all of them. Yet he'd never been trusted with anything about Jason's past. He'd only ever heard about the pieces second-hand.

He supposed he deserved that.

Talia nodded. "Indeed, the purification of the All Caste is dangerous. The only other human to survive was…"

"Ra's," Bruce finished.

Talia inclined her head. "And then Jason took away my father's chance at true immortality by defeating the untitled."

"So, it _is_ personal." Tim said the words like they left a bad aftertaste in his mouth, like spitting out a bug.

"And now _Ra's_ has made this personal," Bruce said, standing up and placing a hand upon Tim's shoulder. "We _will_ get your brother back. Strap in for our descent into Gotham airspace. We've got a long night ahead of us."

They all nodded, buckling in to their respective seats.

…

Deathstroke smiled as his team finally made it into the cave. He looked around, noting the bats at rest high above their heads and the stranger bits of paraphernalia. A giant penny? A T-Rex? Slade shook his head. For a guy that came across as so menacing, he sure had an odd collection here.

"Fan out, hide yourselves," He said to his team. He turned and saw Havoc staring at the glass case. Inside, a Robin suit rested. The emblematic R on the chest of the suit shone weakly under the cave's fluorescent lighting. Slade wasn't sure why, but looking at it, he felt like he was intruding on something intensely private. Some matter for a family, like a portrait or…

Or a headstone.

He thought he saw the masked man shiver and followed Havoc's gaze down to the plaque at the bottom. 'Jason Todd: A Good Soldier.'

Slade was about to comment on the scene when the crash of breaking glass sounded from the stairs. All eyes turned to see a stately man in a black and white suit standing in the entrance to the cave. He had dropped a tray carrying a teapot and several small teacups, all of them now shattered on the ground. "My word!" he exclaimed.

"Havoc." Slade called.

The helmeted figure turned to attention immediately, all trembling forgotten in the wake of his imperious call.

"Kill him," He ordered.

The old man ran back up the stairs.

Havoc drew his blades and proceeded to hunt the man down.

…

 **Ohhhh shiz. Yeah, this is happening. It's gonna get better, believe it or not!**

 **Please review/comment. They encourage me to continue…** **until next time!**


	10. The Hunt

**Chapter 10: The Hunt**

Alfred was getting too damned _old_ for this.

The thought came, unbidden, as he pushed the grandfather clock aside and rushed out of the room. He heard the heavy footfalls behind him, knew that one of the mercenaries had breached their sanctum. Still, his bones _ached_ with every step and Alfred was undeniably exhausted from waiting up for his family to return. A knife whizzed past his ear and Alfred yelped quite un-gentlemanly as it sliced through the tip of his ear. Alfred picked up the pace, rushing up the stairs and toward the bedrooms. He had to get to Bruce's room. Had to get to the master closet and the panic room that was installed behind it.

He'd barely gotten to the top of the steps when a second knife struck him in the shoulder and lodged there.

This time, Alfred did cry out, landing on his knees in a heap. The helmeted mercenary was behind him, at the bottom of the stairs. Just waiting. Staring at Alfred with vacant, mechanical eyes. He was a large man, that much was certain. His height alone rivaled that of Master Bruce's, with muscles to spare. The outfit was militaristic with a distinct red, black, and blue camo pattern that snaked across the various pieces of armor. The helmet, though, reminded Alfred vaguely of the Batman's cowl, only it was a helmet – like the ones that Jason used to wear. The thought turns his stomach.

Reaching trembling fingers to the wound, Alfred grit his teeth.

And pulled.

The old man couldn't help the yelp he released as the knife came loose and then dropped away. He kept expecting to look down and see that the figure had moved – like that one episode of _Dr. Who_ he'd watched with Dick, the one with the angels that got closer every time you looked away. But the man was still there at the foot of the stairs, ram-rod still and straight.

Just watching him.

Alfred got to his knees shakily, still clutching at his shoulder as it bled. Then he was on his feet, turning away from the masked figure and rushing down the long hallway toward Bruce's room. No sooner had he reached the door, when Alfred turned to see the mercenary standing at the top of the stairs, at the other end of the shadowed hallway. The eyes gleamed in the darkness and Alfred was fairly certain that this could not be a man. It had to be a demon of some sort, a monster like the one that Bruce had intentionally made himself into.

Alfred turned the handle of the door and threw himself inside – and just in time, too. A third knife shot through the space he had just been standing in, a shot that would clearly have been fatal if the old man had hesitated even a moment. As it was, he was shaking as he shut the door and turned the lock. Pictures of Bruce with each of his sons tumbled off the dresser as he shoved it over to block the door. That's when the banging started. It was slow at first, but returned with ardor when the would-be assassin realized what Alfred had done.

The butler wasted no time.

He pushed the closet door open and ran to the back. There, behind the various suits and ties of Bruce's daily persona, was a keypad hidden in the wall. Alfred's fingers shook as wood splintered behind him and he typed in the code to unlock the panic room.

4-6-7 –

He missed a key. Entered the wrong code.

4-7-6 –

He tried again but his shaking fingers pressed the keys out of order.

4-6-7-5!

Alfred almost screamed in triumph as the hidden doorway was open to him. He set a single foot inside before he was yanked backward. The old man let loose a string of curses, in fear and frustration at being _right_ here when-

The helmeted figure pulled him out of the closet, away from the panic room, and away from safety. His back landed against the wall of the bedroom with a loud _thump_ and Alfred could swear his heart was going to beat right out of his chest as he stared into the cold, lifeless eyes of the helmet. His shoulder was throbbing in tune with the rapid beating of his heart and Alfred raised his hands before his face in a gesture of surrender. The man drew the hilt of a blade from his utility belt and Alfred watched in horror as the sword extended to full length. The man's arm wound back, ready to spear the old butler to the wall like a kabob.

"Please, sir!" Alfred cried. "Show mercy!"

The arm stopped moving.

Alfred heard a startled gasp come from behind the helmet. The figure was breathing heavily now, though his arm was still poised above the old butler. Alfred looked down, realizing for the first time that his hand was bleeding from landing on shattered glass – the glass from the disturbed picture frames to be exact. The man followed his gaze, seeing the photos strewn about. The mercenary's breath hitched, he reached for one –

And then he went rigid.

The arm holding the blade lifted.

And then came down.

Bruce and his children knew something was wrong the moment that they entered the cave. It was nothing obvious, nothing that was distinctly out of place. But there was a creeping tingle that went up his spine, telling him that something wasn't right. He glanced at Dick, noting that his stance had gone stiff as well. His mask was back on, too. Bruce nodded at his son, receiving a quiet nod in return. Tim and Damian, who had fallen asleep some time ago were just stirring while Talia was putting weight on her twisted ankle experimentally. She looked up when Bruce approached her.

"Something is amiss, Beloved," she said. She managed not to wince as she stood, carefully limping to the front of the plane with him.

"When I lower the hatch, I want you and Damian to remain on the plane."

"But Father!" Damian began indignantly.

"No buts," Bruce insisted. "If Ra's original target was you, I don't want you anywhere near this."

"So you would leave me with one that may have planned this all along!?"

"Enough, my son." She said in Arabic, a language that Damian had not heard since coming to Gotham. Bruce isn't sure if it's the familiarity with which she says the words, or the words themselves, but Damian's mouth closes and whatever harsh words he is about to say die in his throat. There are unshed tears in his eyes, but they are gone so quickly that Bruce wonders if it was just a trick of the light.

He does not want his son to be out of his sight. He does not want Talia to be alone with him. And he certainly does not want to go into battle with his two remaining sons like any of this is normal.

But he doesn't have the luxury of a choice.

He can see shadows now, shadows that aren't supposed to be in the cave at this hour. It confirms that they are not alone and Bruce curses silently to himself.

"We will exit the plane and hold them off long enough for you and Damian to escape." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "You will only have enough fuel to make it out of Gotham, maybe further if you push it. Be careful, and keep my… _our_ son safe."

Talia nodded, still looking grim.

"very well then."

The plane landed without incident. Bruce, Tim and Dick were in place as the ramp slowly lowered to the ground. They walked to the cave's platform slowly and as soon as their feet touched the ground, the ramp was retracting – the plane prepared for liftoff.

And the shadows came alive.

Deathstroke charged forward, aiming for the retracting ramp, but Dick was right there in his path.

"You think I'd allow you to hurt my brother? Think again, Slade!" Dick's Escrima sticks were out in a moment, blocking the slicing blade of Wilson's sword. They engaged and Bruce turned his attention to the other men.

Tim was at his side at once, falling into formation easily. Bruce had almost forgotten what it was like to fight with the boy at his side. Tim's fighting style was so different than Damian's, different then Dick and Jason's as well. It lacked the grace and acrobatics of Dick's, the straightforward ruthlessness of Jason's, and it was far less vicious than Damian's. No, Tim's style was all about using his head. He made rapid calculations so that each step was precise, every movement in complete harmony with the last. He knew to look for weaknesses, aim for them, and then take it a step further so that every attack moved flawlessly on to the next. This fighting style was not polished through years of intense training, it wasn't neat or perfect, but it was smart. Tim's greatest asset had always been his mind, and he'd learned to utilize it well, even in the fast-paced dialogue of motion.

Tim was like Bruce. Before he'd traveled. Before he'd honed his skills. Before he'd grown into the muscles that Batman _needed_.

Together, Tim and Bruce created algorithms of movement. Instead of "if x, then y," it was a series of equations. _If this man ducks to avoid my punch, then he leaves himself open to my partner. I force him to duck. My partner takes him down. I move to the next target._ All of it happens so quickly, there's no room for conscious thought, just quiet calculation and violent attacks.

They have taken down more than half of the men coming at them before a noise breaks through the fighting.

It's Slade. He's backed up from the advancing Nightwing, back against the wall, when he says the one thing that can make Bruce's blood run cold.

"Havoc! Have you killed that old man, yet? get back down here, now!"

Old man.

 _Alfred_.

"Go, B!" Tim screamed, pushing one more man away before punching another. "Find him!"

Bruce didn't hesitate.

He ran toward the stairs just as the Batplane took off, leaving the cave behind in its wake and carrying Damian to safety.

When Bruce reached the second story landing, he found a dark stain of crimson, seeping into the blue of the carpet below. There was a steel throwing knife coated in blood that had been haphazardly cast aside and a large footprint just beyond the growing puddle – a military style boot, like the one Havoc had been wearing in their first confrontation. "Alfred," He whispered, his heart picking up its frantic pace.

He stepped further into the darkness of the hallway, moving slowly, testing each door mechanically. He knew that Alfred would head for the panic room hidden behind his master closet, but it always paid to be prepared, to be careful. He could see specks of blood leaving a trail forward toward his room, and slowly he made his way toward the door. He could see splinters of wood coming from the door where it had been kicked in. A figure approached, melting out of the shadows like a demon and Bruce's heart sunk with dread. Because it was Havoc. And Havoc's arms and hands were covered in blood.

"What have you done?" Bruce asked, not really expecting an answer, not really caring. He charged at the man, "What have you done!" He screamed.

Havoc didn't get a chance to answer before Bruce was on him, landing blow after blow. His attack was wild and untamed, full of righteous fury and fear and loss. The man wasn't even trying to fight him anymore, he simply laid there and took each hit without so much as a grunt at the impacts. Bruce's cowl picked up a wave of radio chatter from Deathstroke, demanding Havoc's obedience. And then suddenly, the man is shoving Bruce away, putting a hundred or more pounds of force behind several direct, vicious attacks. Bruce lands in the hall, back against the wall, and then moves forward, fist raised to _hurt_ this man -

"Master Bruce, stop!"

The voice shocked him, like stepping into ice water. He turned, seeing the old man that raised him standing in the doorway behind Havoc, clutching a wound on his shoulder but otherwise _alive_. "Get to the panic room, Alfred!" He called.

Alfred shook his head, approaching. "It's Jason!" The older man said. Then Havoc was elbowing Alfred backward – though it wasn't with the same force that he had been attacking Bruce with, but more to get the old man out of the way. Alfred stumbled back, landing on his back in a heap. Still, he sat up wearily, eyes peering into Bruce's.

"Jason?" Bruce said, turning wild eyes back to the other man. His heart felt like ice in his chest as he lined up an image of his second son, superimposed it over this man.

But Havoc was already charging, tackling Bruce and forcing him back down the hallway, away from Alfred. His vigor had returned full force, but now Bruce recognized patterns of attack – his patterns, the one's he'd taught to each of his Robins – even though they were slower than they should be, shakier. Bruce kicked out, dislodging his attacker and then landing a solid blow to the helmet. "Jason!" He yelled, putting all his emotion into the call.

Havoc backed away, suddenly wary and Bruce rose from the floor to stand toe-to-toe with the man that could be his son.

He wasn't sure when he came out of it. He wasn't even sure what "it" was. It felt like drowning, like surfacing on that beach after being slammed into the pier. Everything hurt and his mind was awash with swirling emotions and fear. All he knew for certain was that he didn't _want_ to do this. It was the voice that had done it. Alfred's voice.

"Please, sir!" the old man had cried. "Show mercy!"

Jason could almost feel an audible click when the memories slipped into place – his memories of this man, the one he was poised to kill. He gasped for air, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and wake from this nightmare. Alfred's eyes searched Jason's, before turning down to look at shattered frames and pictures and –

 _His_ photo.

His and Bruce's. From the day, right after their return from Miami, with both of them in desperate need of Aloe Vera, but still smiling at the camera that Alfred had returned with. His grip on the sword faltered and he almost dropped it when his comm came to life. It crackled at first, but something about the voice pulled at his mind. It was Deathstroke, commanding his return. And then his mind was shattered.

It was like glass rending the edges of his consciousness, demanding he follow orders. Dark visions of what he had endured these past few months flashed before his eyes and Jason let out a ragged cry.

He had to kill Alfred.

…

But he couldn't kill Alfred.

Jason screamed, bringing the blade down intending to kill –

But the blade never touched Alfred. Instead, he swung it on an arc to slice into his own arms, drawing a spray of blood across the two of them. Alfred gaped in horror, still fully expecting to be dead in the next instant. But the pain brought the streaming memories to a halt, giving Jason just enough of a realization that _this_ was real to scramble away.

Jason's back hit the bed behind him, as what he'd almost done dawned on him.

His eyes went back to the photo of him and Bruce after that vacation. Alfred followed his gaze, turning between them, back and forth. Then, the old man leaned forward, eyes widening.

"Master Jason?" He whispered.

Jason jerked as though he'd been struck.

It was enough of a confirmation and Alfred lurched forward, stopping just short of placing a hand on his shoulder. He was glad the man hadn't touched him, he wasn't sure if he could handle it. "Master Jason?" He repeated, more gently.

Alfred looked down at the gaping wounds in his arms, eyes narrowing in on the twin cuts in Jason's arms. Alfred's hands did touch him then, slowly at first, testing his reaction before pulling the young man's arms forward to get a better look at the wounds. Blood coated his arms, soaking into the camouflage suit, but as Alfred watched, the wounds healed – growing smaller and smaller until nothing was left but a thin, white scar atop other, older scars. An effect of the Lazarus Serum, Jason was used to the light burning of the skin knitting back together, he reveled in it, using it to ground him in the moment.

But then he was healed, and there was only the blood between them.

Jason withdrew his arms, reaching out tentatively to touch the wound on the old Butler's shoulder. He didn't remember it, but he knew he'd caused this. Jason bowed his head in silent shame, lowering his hand before it reached Alfred.

But Alfred was patient, he was kind, and he was the closest thing that Jason had ever had to a grandfather.

A shaky hand bridged the gap between them, grabbing hold of the tip of Jason's helmet and tilting his chin up. "It's okay, young man."

Jason shook his head, tears forming behind the safety of the helmet. He reached up, intending to hit the release to show his face.

But then there was a noise in the hallway.

It tore away at Jason's focus, rending his already fragile mind away from his grandfather-figure. Havoc was back immediately, tearing away from the older man and standing between Alfred and whatever was beyond.

He approached the door, and turned.

It was Batman, dark and foreboding in the doorway. The man's gaze narrowed as he inspected the other man, pausing briefly on the blood now coating his suit.

And then Bruce was charging, roaring in rage as he slammed into the younger man. Blow after blow hit the mark, but Jason just channeled that pain into keeping himself in check, reigning in the madness of Havoc.

His comm flared to life, crackling into Jason's ear. "Havoc!" Jason flinched. "Blue. Origin."

And just like that. Jason was gone. He cried out at the loss, an then his mind was consumed by rage and madness. He pushed everything into what was ahead – finally fighting back. Bruce was against the wall in an instant and Havoc stood in the doorway menacingly, only just registering Alfred's voice behind him. He struck out, elbowing the older man to keep him out of the way, out of the fight.

"Jason?" Batman said, eyes widening a fraction.

Havoc grunted, tackling the older man and driving him away from Alfred. The Bat kicked out, landing a solid blow to his helmet before calling, "Jason!"

Jason closed his eyes, backing away from the man that was his father as he stood. Coming back to himself with a heavy breath.

And then the panic struck.

 _His_ helmet was built differently and this was _not_ his helmet. The red hood was designed to be close-fitting, so that when Jason moved just so he could feel the reassuring polymer against bare flesh. _His_ helmet filtered smells so that he wouldn't have to catch something that brought him back to a time in a warehouse with a clown and a crowbar.

THIS helmet was nothing but empty, cavernous air - like the space between his face and the wood of a coffin. Jason breathed once. In and out.

And then he screamed.

He tore at the sides of the helmet, then at his neck, fingers frantic and cramping as he dug away at his own skin in an attempt to get the thing _off_. Panic was a hard thing to quell. It was not simple fear, it was a living, breathing demon that settled into his bones and made him keep digging even when he'd torn deep grooves into the flesh at his neck - this demon chased away rational thought and Jason was just _gone_. It wasn't until a full minute later that by some miracle he caught the release on the damn thing. It gave a sharp _snap-hiss_ and then he was tearing it off and tossing it away with the same menace one might throw a snake they've discovered too close to their arm.

Cool air filled his lungs and Jason gulped it down like a cool glass of milk. He crouched down, his fingers covered in his own blood, all while breathing rapidly with harsh, ragged breaths coming and going for several minutes before his mind finally returns to him. He knows his heart is going too fast, knows he's coming out of a panic attack, and he also knows that he has no idea where he is or how he got there. His face is bare and there's nothing to stop the tears now. He clutches at his head in pain and fear and the swirling terror of the memories in his mind.

"I can't, I can't," Jason cried, falling to his knees. He stared at the blood on his hands and then met the gaze of his father. "Make it stop," He said quietly around the lump in his throat.

And then Bruce was there, reaching out tentatively. He paused, taking only a moment to remove the gloves of the Batsuit. A cold hand touched Jason's face, gentle but firm. The skin-to-skin contact did more to calm his erratic heart than any of the breaths he'd taken before.

"Please," Jason whispered, eyes still full of tears, "Make it stop."

A trickle of tears ran down his father's face, reflecting Jason's own.

And then all hell broke loose.


	11. Heartland

**A/N: well, here it is. I'm kind of blah about this chapter, but it all needed to happen for what comes next so… happy reading! And thank you again for all of my wonderful reviewers, I probably would have given up on this fic if it weren't for you! A Special thank you to JasmineTiger for being awesome and letting me ramble on about new story ideas and such. ;)**

 **Chapter 11: Heartland**

Tim was not a fighter. There, he admitted it. Tim Drake was _not_ a fighter. He was a strategist. He had the intelligence to one day surpass even Bruce, but Tim knew it would be a long time coming. He needed the experience only age could bring. Which is why he'd made it a point to spend so much time around the other Robins, let alone the Bat himself. _Experience_. It could make or break you.

Tim had fought long and hard to learn the lessons that he needed. He'd learned how to fight by training beside Bruce. He'd learned how to maneuver himself to the most advantageous position from Dick. Most importantly, he'd lived under Jason's shadow since he'd first donned the red suit – had even been afraid to call himself "Robin" because of it. Bruce had made Jason into a soldier, and when that soldier had died… well, he was a warning to Robins past and present. A foreboding visage of what could happen to any of them at any time.

It had been a frightening struggle, particularly when Jason had returned from the grave. Tim remembered that for the first time in a very long time, Bruce had called him "Jason" by accident, when it had been almost a year since the last time. The word had hung in the air between them before Bruce had pointedly pulled the cowl over his head and gone to the car. It was part of the reason that Tim had chosen to leave again for the Titans, it had certainly factored in. Because whatever Bruce may or may not be to Tim, Jason would always hang in the air between them, no matter how much time had passed. The realization had sent Tim away to eventually be beaten to a pulp by the older Robin, but that was beside the point.

Because Jason had apologized. Had eaten breakfast with Tim. Had supported his role in the family, even when they both saw themselves as outcasts.

Because Tim still had a family, had parents. He didn't need another one. But he had it nonetheless. And those breakfasts with Jason? They had meant that Tim didn't feel quite so alone anymore.

Dick had been a supportive brother as well, but there had always been something blocking that relationship. Like the shadow of Jason Todd had affected everyone but the man himself. Dick could be distant, he didn't tell Tim everything, and sometimes the older man was so much like Bruce that Tim had to shake his head in defeat. It was just so much easier with Jason – because Jason, for all his flaws and imperfections, knew how to cut through the bullshit like nobody's business. And Tim admired that.

Jason wouldn't lie to him.

Dick and Bruce?

Tim could never tell.

That didn't mean he didn't care about Dick or Bruce, quite the opposite. They were family, for better or worse. He loved Dick like a brother. Loved Bruce like he was his father. Would fight and die to defend them. But there was something about secrets that could make him pause and wonder about his place among them – did they see him the same way? As a brother? As a son?

He used to think he could read people, especially when Jack Drake had taught him how to gamble – to look at the other players more than even his own hand. But then, Tim had met Bruce, had been given a second father-figure who could hide so many things from his own family it wasn't even funny. Bruce had taught him that the hand you were dealt was as important as the people you were playing with.

And boy was he right.

Because things were going well, right up until they weren't.

Tim ducked under the arm of one of the thugs before him, only to receive a dizzying kick from the one behind him. Dick was there in an instant, Escrima sticks flaring to life and knocking both men to the ground. There was blood trickling from an open wound on Tim's forehead and he struggled to find the strength just to _move_ , let alone continue fighting. He glanced at Dick, who was breathing heavily but otherwise unharmed.

"We can't keep this up, there are too many of them," Tim gasped out.

Dick slammed his Escrima sticks into another approaching enemy, still half crouched over Tim defensively. "I know, Baby Bird."

They split up instantly as a gunshot rang out, but as soon as they came up they bother realized they'd made a grave error.

Dick Grayson was, above all else, an older brother. He was the eldest, as he'd told his brothers – _"I carried that, so you didn't have to."_ But it meant something more than that. Being the eldest meant that he was the guardian of the family. He stood beside Bruce, protected his brothers when they needed it, took over for their father when he needed it. He wore the cowl, though it felt like it stifled his very soul to do it. And, as the eldest, he didn't complain about it.

He'd made mistakes, there was no avoiding that.

His brothers had been angry with him for a long time. He was the "golden boy" and while he stood for what they should strive to be, it also weighed on him. Jason had been angry with him for a long time, angry at the comparison between them, in typical second-son fashion. Then Jason had died, and Dick had realized that he'd failed spectacularly in his role. He'd tried harder. Been a better brother to Tim when he had come along. But it also terrified him.

Dick Grayson was responsible for the lives of every Robin that came after him. No matter what happened to Bruce, no matter if he wore the cowl or not, no matter whether his brothers felt they needed it or not.

Now, though, Dick Grayson was scared.

He was scared because Deathstroke had bested them. He held one of his swords to the throat of Timothy Drake and Dick knew he had no choice but to surrender.

Tim gasped as the blade dug into his neck, drawing a dribble of blood from the wound. "So, tell me _Nightwing_. Do you want your brother in arms to die?" Slade asked smugly.

"No!" dick screamed, not willing to allow another of his brothers to wind up hurt or killed or –

That's when the explosion rocked through the cave, swallowing them all with its heat.

A loud bang reverberated through the house, shaking the walls in its intensity, and suddenly Jason went rigid, eyes widening. There was something unfocused and dangerous about them. Something that stank of the pit and its magic waters.

Jason screamed. "You did this to me! It's your _fault_!"

Bruce backed away just as Jason drove forward, rolling closer. Then, Jason was on him, punching wildly, missing half of the blows in his rage. Confusion quickly gave way to battle-honed instincts and Bruce caught the next punch midair before twisting abruptly to throw the boy off. Batman rolled away, growing closer to the banister and the pool of Alfred's blood lying stagnant below.

"We can fix this, together! You're not what he made you! You're not his soldier!" Jason landed a hard blow, nearly knocking Bruce over the railing.

" _You_ made me a soldier! You're both the same!" The boy screamed the last word, tackling the older man in a fit of rage. Bruce twisted out of the way, only to catch an elbow to the gut. There was a wet crack and the older man gasped in pain.

"Jason, this is _wrong_! Ra's did this! _Listen_ to me!" But the boy just charged again, like an enraged bull. They struggled together, neither gaining an inch until finally Jason pushed away, pulling his twin pistols as he did so.

"I can't go back… y-you don't understand. You don't know what they did to me." The words tear a ragged hole in Bruce's heart. They aren't the words of a deranged killer. They are the words of a child, lost and alone for far too long.

"Then enlighten me." Bruce said, moving forward and grabbing hold of the guns as the struggle continued.

"I _trusted_ you, and you just left me to die!" Jason cried, tears streaming, all the anguish from the last few months tearing into his throat as the words left his mouth. There was a sliver of blood leaking out of the boy's nose and he wiped it away raggedly as they broke apart.

Still determined to draw the boy back, he cried out – desperate and broken, "Let me in, Jason. Let me help you."

"Stop _talking_ to me!" Jason fired, but the bullet strayed left and hit the wall behind Bruce. There was madness in Jason's eyes, deep and dark like the first time that Jason returned to Gotham. Tainted by the verdant of the Lazarus Pit.

"Don't be what he made you. You _were_ Robin, Jason." Slowly, with hands trembling almost as badly as Jason's, Bruce traced a scar that ran along the boy's chin. It's not a new one, it's from a time before Jason's death. From a time when Jason had worn an R emblazoned on his chest. "But you _are_ my _son_."

Jason reacted as though he'd been struck, flinching violently and pulling away. The movement jarred his whole body and the second gun went off.

This one doesn't miss.

Bruce gasped as the bullet tore through the Kevlar of his suit at close range, ripping into his shoulder and loosing a spray of blood. Jason's eyes were wide, fear replacing some of the madness as he stared at the blossoming tide of crimson on his father's chest. Bruce fell backwards, keeping his grip tight on the boy in front of him, to bring him down to the floor as well. "No…"

"It's okay, son." Bruce said, holding onto the front of Jason's suit. "It's okay."

"NO!" Jason cried, tears slipping from his eyes. The maddening shade of green has faded from his eyes for the moment, leaving only the color from Jason's boyhood – the teal that they should be. "Bruce… no, why did you? How…?"

blood dripped from Jason's nose in a steady stream, and the boy scrambled away, pushing so hard and fast that his back slammed into the wall a moment later. His hands grasped either side of his head and his eyes closed as he curled in on himself. "It hurts…" He whimpers.

Jason was slipping away, falling into a sea of darkness so deep that Bruce's heartbeat quickened and he could taste fear in the blood filling his mouth. Jason, his son, was going to break into a million pieces, and then there wouldn't be anything left to save.

"J-Jason." Bruce's voice echoed across the empty space between them, but Jason didn't look up, still locked inside his own mind for the time being. "Son, look at me."

An imperious command, he could have ignored. But not this desperate plea. Jason's eyes came up, just barely over the curve of his knees. There was agony in his eyes, like he was fighting a losing battle against himself.

Bruce swallowed thickly, the words coming to him from a far-off place in his memory. The words of Thomas Wayne on the night that changed Bruce's life forever. "I love you, son. It's going to be alright…"

darkness crowded in on his vision, but blessedly he could still see Jason's face. And that was really all that mattered to him.

A sob caught in Jason's throat as he stood, using the wall to lift himself from the ground. And then, he was right beside him, putting pressure on the wound, desperate to staunch the flow of blood. "Please don't… don't leave me here alone."

Bruce could hear the words, faintly on the edge of his awareness. They were an exact replica of the words he'd said to his own father and Bruce's heart constricted painfully. He'd do anything to fulfill the boy's wishes, but the darkness was crowding in again. He called on his father's words yet again.

"You'll be alright, Jason." The long night, the pain from his injuries, and now this gunshot wound, were all taking their toll on him. Slowly, he reached up to wipe a fresh tear from Jason's face. "I-I love you, son."

It's the last thing he said before life slipped away around him. Dimly, he knew that Jason had fallen beside him as well, tucked close under his arm in a pool of their shared blood.

Talia ran through the operations without conscious thought. She disregarded the pain in her ankle along with the pain in her heart and got the plane moving. The fight outside the plane intensified just as she finished pulling out of the cave. Safety was a tangible thing, stinging her tongue with its bittersweet flavor. Bruce appeared in her mind, whispering to run, to take their son away from the battle. Now, doubt clawed at her insides. Between pressing buttons to set the auto-pilot, Damian glared at her, sending a dark vibe into the cockpit that seemed to suck the very air away from them.

She cleared her throat to break the silence, but this only served to intensify the tension between them.

"My son –"

" _Don't_ call me that," Damian spat, looking away and folding his arms across his chest petulantly.

Talia raised one elegant brow. "And what should I call you? You are my child. I brought you life –"

"And you took it away as well. Or did you forget?" Talia flinched at the harshness of his words. Shame and guilt mingled in her gut and she looked away.

"You're right."

"Yeah, I'm right, what did you-" the boy paused, swiveling mid-sentence. "I am?"

"You are," She nodded. "I did something unforgivable to you. I allowed you to be raised in violence and blood and then I had you killed for reasons that were not entirely my own."

"-Tt-" Damian responded, "If you didn't want to do it, you wouldn't have. If I know nothing else about you, I know you cannot be cowed."

"And yet, I allowed myself a moment of weakness. And it cost you your life," She paused and the next words were spoken in Arabic. "I am sorry, my son."

Damian made a noise, half-way between a growl and a moan that got stuck in his throat. "Don't say that to me," he finally said.

"Damian-"

"No!" His glittering green eyes melted into her as he stood, hands fisted at his sides. "Don't you _dare_ apologize to me, you have no right, _no right._ "

Silent tears left his eyes and Talia felt her heart breaking. Still, the boy wasn't done. He continued, "You ordered my murder, didn't even care to carry out the order yourself! You didn't even come to _see_ me, didn't even _want_ to see me. I'm your son, or have you forgotten!?"

"Never, Damian. I never-"

"I'm not done!" He screamed, fists coming to rest on the arms of the chair Talia was occupying. "Why, Mother? Why didn't you want me?"

There it was. The real issue between them, the one that Damian _truly_ couldn't forgive. Her abandonment of him, however righteously intended, had left Damian without a mother, without a _place_. And she stuttered over her next words to him. "I-it was not safe for you any longer…"

"No!" Don't you dare lie to me!" Damian yelled. "Don't tell me I was safer with Father, don't tell me that Grandfather forced you, don't tell me I was better off without my mother!"

She swallowed thickly, reaching out a delicate hand to wipe a tear away from her son's face. But Damian flinched away, backing up as though just realizing how close they were standing.

"I'm sorr-"

"Don't- don't tell me your sorry." He whispered, already turning away and heading for the back of the aircraft. "Because if you say you're sorry I'll have to forgive you. And I'm not strong enough for that."

Damian pulled a curtain to one of the sleeping areas in the back, tossing the words, "Let me know when we land," over his shoulder.

Talia was left with a shuddering silence that dug into her very skin, worse than any she'd ever experience. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, and she wiped at it furiously. She could not fail her son again. So she resolutely looked out the viewport, typed in the landing coordinates, and focused all her willpower on how to fix this broken mess.

"Load them into the back. Make sure they're fully sedated first, though." Slade said, watching as his men gathered their supplies and hefted Nightwing and then Red Robin into the back of the armored military-grade trucks. His men had syringes full of the sedative ready and pushed the plungers as the needle pierced first Nightwing's, and then Red Robin's neck.

"And make sure you burn all the evidence. I don't want anyone to come looking for them."

He turned, holding a hand up for his henchmen to stop. "Havoc. What a disappointment you turned out to be."

The man in question was bleeding from his nose, still completely unconscious from an obvious battle he'd had with Batman, who was lying not two feet away.

"Load them up as well," Slade paused, considering. "And make sure Havoc here gets a double dose. Drugs wear off too quickly to be of much use without the extra."

Slade smiled behind his mask. It was a good day to make some extra cash.

He turned away as the manor started to burn.

 **A/N: Ugh. Poor Jaybear. It's gonna be important later, but for now… poor, poor jay… ha. More Talia and Damian to come, and then we are off to see the wizard! And yeah, some of that was taken directly from dialogue in Arkham Knight... sorry not sorry y'all.**


	12. Can You Hear Me Screaming?

**Okay so first off, happy Birthday to Jason! And also, I'm very sorry for hurting you on your b-day…. Oops. As I said in my other work, I just got a new job so sorry if the chapters are a bit behind schedule. They are a little shorter than I'd originally intended as I was going to have a few more perspective changes but it's either this or release sometime next week sooooo. Yeah. I've been working full time and usually getting home pretty late, but I'm going to try to stick to a schedule of updating weekly on Tuesdays or Wednesdays.**

 **Happy reading!**

 **Chapter 12: Can You Hear Me Screaming**

Bruce woke to a roaring pain in his shoulder, and he shuddered violently with it. Sweat left a fine sheen over his body and he groaned softly as he pulled himself up. The wound was tended to, that much he could tell from the scratch of bandages against the irritated flesh.

"B? Is that you?" Came the worried voice of his eldest son, and Bruce blinked, taking in his surroundings. The voice had come from beyond the stone walls, somewhere vaguely to his right. They were in cells, almost identical to the ones built in the Batcave. He could tell by the prickling sensation running up his flesh that the glass before him was electrified.

"Dick?" He asked, pushing himself into a sitting position despite the angry protest his shoulder was giving him.

"Yeah."

"I'm here too," Tim said, from somewhere to his left. Bruce groaned again, pulling at the bandages over his wound.

"Are either of you hurt?" Bruce asked anxiously, trying to catch a glimpse of his sons through the glass.

"Bit of a headache, but I'm okay," Tim said.

"Ditto," Dick grumbled. "Are you alright, B?"

Bruce could just picture the young man holding his head in agitation. Bruce nodded, even knowing that they couldn't see him. "I'm fine. What about Jason?"

"Jason?"

"Jason." Bruce said, sidling closer to the glass. "Ra's has him brainwashed, he barely registered that he was about to hurt Alfred. He's Havoc. Or he was… I think I got through to him."

"Is he alright?" Tim asked.

"No. He's not." Bruce said, remembering the feral gleam to his son's eyes. The pain. The fear.

"He killed that doctor," Dick said, just barely audible.

Bruce closed his eyes. Yes, his son had murdered that man. He'd likely done worse in his time away, likely had worse done to him as well. "He did."

"Jesus," Dick whispered. "We've got to get him out of here."

"We're gonna have to get ourselves out first," Tim said, not a bit sardonically. "I can see a control panel over here, but there's no way to reach it from inside."

Bruce could see a similar panel to the immediate right of his cell. It was completely digital, looking like it would need handprint verification to open. He cursed shortly under his breath, garnering the strength to stand. A trickle of sweat made its way along his spine and Bruce grimaced uncomfortably. When he was up, he ran a careful finger along the edge of where the cave wall met with the electrified glass. His hand automatically went to his waist, only to start and realize his utility belt was missing. He quickly ran inventory through the rest of his suit, coming up empty handed. Whoever had disarmed him had been thorough.

"Do either of you have a batarang? Anything sharp to dig out the wall?"

There was a moment of silence before Tim yelped excitedly. "Eureka!"

"See if you can tunnel around the glass with it."

He heard the distinct sound of the cave being chipped away and Bruce smiled proudly before allowing himself to sink to the ground. His shoulder wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but his mind was far away. He thought of Alfred, hoping that the older man had made it back to the panic room in time to escape. There was the clang of a gate being opened and Bruce didn't need to tell Tim to put the weapon away before Ra's Al Ghul was stepping into the chamber.

The light was pale on the ancient's face, highlighting the dark color of his skin and the piercing green of his eyes. He looked stronger than Bruce had seen him in a long time, muscles framed lightly by the dark green cape he so loved to wear. There was something about him that seemed off, though. Bruce grimaced at the thought, mind working to uncover what it was that had changed.

"Detective," The man said curtly.

"Ra's." He replied, equally cool. He stood to meet the man on firmer ground.

The ancient smiled wickedly, turning his gaze to the occupants of the other two cells. Something about his gaze made Bruce's skin itch, he reached for a Batarang that he consciously already knew wouldn't be there. This man was not the authoritarian father that Bruce had met years ago. He was not the man who had sought to preserve the environment or force human kind to destroy itself. His ideals were nowhere within that maniacal smirk.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Talia had said that her father had changed. Perhaps this was the end product.

"What happened to you, Ra's? The man that I knew would never stoop to abusing children. You used to have honor," Bruce said, eyes never leaving the vivid green of his enemy.

"Oh, come now, Detective." The smile returned two-fold. "That boy grew up a long time ago. He proved as much when he destroyed the Untitled and ruined my last plans for reaching eternal life and power." The man's eyes held an insane light. "He brought this on himself, especially after he shirked the protection you could have provided him."

"He is my _son_ , Ra's." The words came out barely above a whisper, full of the righteous venom of a threatened viper.

"He was." Ra's inclined his head, reclaiming a fraction of his lost elegance. "Now he is nothing more than a shell, a ghost, if you will."

As though on cue, the gate clanged again and several men came forward into the room. Bruce recognized a few of them from his battles against the League. Ubu, the right-hand man of the Demon's Head, and another servant dragged between them a bloodied individual. The white streak of hair was the only identifiable marking that Bruce could recognize of the gory mess Jason had become.

He heard a gasp from his right, but Bruce couldn't tear his eyes away from Jason.

Blood dripped steadily from several long gashes along the boy's back, all of which crisscrossed with older, ugly scars. Bruce's heart stopped.

 _The heat from the explosion washed over him as his frantic search continued. The smell of blood was thick in the air, even as plumes of smoke rose higher and higher, his search growing more and more frantic until finally -_

Bruce wanted to close his eyes against the influx of images, against the flashbulb memory that would forever be seared into his brain. He'd failed, again, _again_ and –

The boy on the ground coughed wetly, lungs screaming as he drew in a ragged breath and blood dribbled down his chin.

 _The debris had crushed his son, breaking bone and leaving a ruined mess of flesh. Bruce reached out to check for a pulse he already knew wouldn't be there, wondering if his son had been scared, if he'd called for his father, if he'd been angry when he realized Bruce wouldn't make it -_

"Jason!" Dick screamed from his right.

The boy didn't look up, but stayed in a bloody heap on the ground, struggling for air. His hair was longer than it had been months ago, having grown out so that the waves became curly and unkempt in a way that young Jason had always lamented, and the long strands were spiky at the tips where they met with the crimson rivulets slowly seeping downward. Jason groaned, curling inward and beginning to shiver as Ubu delivered a crippling blow to his ribs.

"You have taken away my pet, Detective. Now, I have taken away yours." Bruce tore his eyes away from Jason only long enough to glare furiously at the ancient.

Bruce's fist connected with the glass. It barely moved, but released a current of electricity arching through him, to which he barely reacted. Bruce's face contorted with pain and anger and all the feelings he'd been locking away the past six months. He screamed his son's name, but only got a small, broken whimper in reply.

 _Skin cold as ice, eyes already going flat as rigor mortis creeped in on the body –_

Bruce didn't feel the pain of the electricity as his fist collided with the glass again. He didn't feel his shoulder when the wound opened again. He didn't hear Dick or Tim screaming at him to stop. He didn't even hear Ubu laughing or Ra's continuing to taunt him.

All he heard were the sounds of his son, whimpering in pain and calling his name intermittently.

"Jason!" He cried.

Alfred was infinitely glad that Bruce had the foresight to install cameras in the panic room. He was also glad that they'd fireproofed most of the manor after the last three times their enemies had tried to burn them alive. The masked men came flowing into the manor, and Alfred watched in horror from the safety of the room, as they dragged the man he had raised like a son and the boy he had raised like a grandchild away. He cried silent tears as his family was taken away from him. He waited, like a statue frozen in time, as the flames ran out of flammable material.

And even when it was safe to exit the panic room, Alfred remained.

He'd trained in combat for years – learned to kill and save in equal measure. He could stand at attention for hours if necessary, fight any enemy that came his way. But this, watching as his family was single-handedly torn asunder, was the hardest thing he'd ever endured. Worse was that he had no idea how to react. Who could he call? Who could he ask for assistance? And where, in god's name, was Damian?

His heart did a painful little flip at the thought of the youngest Wayne and he startled briefly when he heard the whimpering at the door. He turned to the moniters and didn't hesitate to open the door as he saw who was outside.

Titus stood tall and proud outside the door to the panic room, his fur singed in a few places, but otherwise unharmed. He jumped excitedly when he saw Alfred and rushed into the room to lick at the old butler's hands and whine softly at the wound in his shoulder. In all the commotion, Alfred had completely forgotten about the dog, but now bent to hug the big animal.

"Oh, Titus. You great, big mongrel of a dog," He said fondly. "What do we do, old boy?"

The dog whined and turned to lick his ear affectionately.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the phone that Bruce had _insisted_ he carry (even though the landline was perfectly suitable, thank you very much). He was glad for it now, scrolling through the list of contacts absently. He stopped on two contacts in particular.

He only hesitated for two seconds before hitting 'dial'.

 **A/N: Yes, I'm aware that Damian apparently has several pets, but I'm sticking to just Titus in this story because I think it's a little crazy to deal with all the animals this kid has been collecting. Sorry not sorry to everyone who was waiting to hear if Batcow made it. The bovine will not be in this story. Lol See y'all next week! Or earlier if I can get my butt in gear. Happy chapters to come, I promise!**


	13. Chapter 13: The Paladin

**Oh wow, this is late! Yeah. It's been a long week. I wasn't intending on continuing the flashback from a couple of chapters ago, buttttt. Yeah that's how it turned out. I've been holding on to this for a couple of days and I wanted to just do one more chapter, but there were a lot of extra things that need to happen before the end, so maybe just two or three more chapters after this, depending… Happy reading!**

 **Chapter 13: The Paladin**

Dick Grayson had no word for the emotion bubbling up in his chest, threatening to overtake him, to swallow him whole like a monster in one of those old timey films. Staring at Ra's, standing above a beaten and bloody visage of his younger brother, all that came to mind was _snake_. A viper in a robin's nest.

Jason, for his part, was still bleeding steadily on the ground, shivering intermittently with eyes as cold and fathomless as ice. His usually turquoise eyes had gone a sickening verdant, matching the exact shade of the Lazarus Pits. It scared Dick, to see it. To see Jason – arrogant, reckless, clever Jason – cowering in the aftermath of torture. Because Jason never just sat still, was always in constant motion. Unless he couldn't. Unless he was too injured, sick, or starved to fight back. Right now, he reminded Dick a lot of the too-thin little kid he'd first seen on a night long before Dick had even accepted the boy. A night where he had glimpsed Jason crying on the floor in the middle of his room in the manor, lost in some trauma-induced hell. At the time, Dick had barely hidden a sneer. He'd thought about how much this boy would _never_ live up to the standards a Robin needed to meet.

He'd been wrong, of course.

And he'd regretted not going into that room, after. He had regretted not rushing to comfort a child who could have been his little brother from the very beginning. He'd followed the instinct to protect well enough with Tim and Damian, but perhaps part of that was just his guilt and shame coalescing. Unconsciously, he reached up to rub his palm over the spot where Bruce had hit him that night after Jason's funeral – when Bruce had been right on the money, accusing Dick of being resentful of the boy who had died. Of being jealous of the boy that Bruce had adopted before him.

His heart did a painful little somersault in his chest. Even knowing the that Jason hated physical contact, even knowing his brother had been through so much hell and would likely never enjoy being touched again, Dick wanted nothing more than to hold his brother. Dick had been raised in a loving family, a family where hugs were always welcomed and encouraged. Even Bruce had learned this early on, discovering that simply holding Dick could settle the little circus boy far more quickly than his extensive vocabulary. And he had soaked up that attention, learning to see Bruce as an older brother, even a father at times when the memory of John Grayson had faded far enough away.

"Jason…" He whispered.

He watched as Jason was dragged – hanging completely limp despite wide open eyes – and then dropped to the floor of a cell adjacent to them. The deep gashes along his back had slowly been closing over the course of the conversation between Bruce and Ra's, but a few of the deeper, longer ones were still trickling blood. Ubu approached, handling a small syringe filled with green-blue liquid. The instant that needle touched Jason's neck, the boy started screaming. The sound reached a crescendo as Jason writhed on the rough stone floor of the cell, arching his back as the last of the gashes knit together and healed. They left long jagged silver lines along Jason's back, generally deforming the flesh where each line met. His hair was longer than it should be, curling in an unruly mess atop his head as Jason's fingers fisted in the strands. It wasn't long before the boy let go, curling in on himself and going completely limp – asleep. It reminded Dick disturbingly of a bug, turning in the throes of death.

"Jason!" He repeated, joining in a chorus from his father and Tim.

Ra's came to stand before Bruce's cell, a sharp smile cutting across his serpentine features.

"This can all stop, if you just tell me where my grandson is."

"You will _never_ touch my son again. Neither of them," He heard Bruce say, knowing automatically that his father was glaring like a bat.

Ra's smile widened. "We chose your boy for his compatibility with the pit's magic. You see, it's all in the blood. While he may not be royalty, he had the required genetic components we needed. He was a good first attempt, and he has shown some promise, but he is not exactly what we had hoped."

Dick clenched his fists, anger surging up and pulsing throughout his body. "You bastard," He said between gritted teeth. "You're using him. You've been perfecting this serum on mybrother." His fist connected with the glass, sending a shiver of electricity arcing through him. "My _brother_!"

Ra's' eyes flicked over to him momentarily, completely unfazed by the young man's words. "Come now, Jason hasn't been a part of your family for quite some time."

"You're right."

Dick started at the sound of his third younger brother's voice. He couldn't see Tim from his position in the cell, being completely blocked by the stalagmites of the cave wall, but he could hear from the boy's tone that his was a quiet anger. Black hatred.

"Is that so, boy?" Ra's took a step closer to Tim's cell.

"He has been on the fringe of this family since he died. Before that, even. But that's how family works. It's _always_ been how family works. Bruce taught me that. Jason _showed_ me that."

Dick nodded, even knowing that Tim couldn't see him. "Jason is my brother, he's a part of this family. When you threaten him, you threaten all of us."

"Well, I suppose we'll see about that," Ra's drawled, turning away to look at Ubu. "Hold out on giving him his next dose, but keep the doctors on hand." His eyes met Dick's. "We wouldn't want to lose the original before we have his replacement."

Ra's laughed as Dick cursed, Bruce fumed, and Tim remained quiet as death.

 _Jason woke with a nasty sore throat and a head that was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He groaned as he slowly opened his eyes. The most startling thing to Jason was that he was able to open his eyes at all. He'd fully expected to awaken in greener pastures. There was a slight pressure on his hand and he slowly turned his neck – wincing as he did so – to see Bruce sitting beside him. His head was resting right near Jason's fingers, just close enough to touch, while the older man's hand was bent reflexively over his own. Jason twitched, shifting so that Bruce snapped upward, jarred from sleep. Yawning, the older man stretched and then finally the full weight of his stare was leveled against Jason._

 _The man's royal blue eyes pierced right through him and Jason swallowed thickly. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but closed it immediately as though thinking better of it. Then he asked, "How are you feeling?"_

" _Umm… fine I guess. Killer headache though," Jason answered sheepishly. His voice didn't sound right to his ears, like he was speaking under water. His body ached and throbbed painfully, and every movement felt slower than it should be, but he'd be damned if he was going to say any of that._

 _Bruce looked at him skeptically, but didn't comment on his apparent disbelief. "You almost died out there, Jay. If I'd been a second slower in diving in after you, if that blow to the head had been any deeper-" He tapered off, his eyes clouding with an emotion close to fear, but that wasn't right – Batman wasn't afraid of anything._

 _The, after what seemed like hours, he asked "You don't know how to swim, do you?"_

 _Jason looked away. "There was never any reason to learn. No pools around for It anyway…"_

" _I guess it wasn't the best idea to bring you to a place surrounded by water then."_

" _I guess not…" Jason said quietly, eyes still failing to meet Bruce's._

 _Bruce nodded as though he'd expected that response and they lapsed into an awkward silence._

 _It was more than a few minutes later when Jason couldn't stand it anymore. He yelled, "I'm sorry!" at the same time that Bruce said "Jason, we need to-"_

 _They both stopped, closing their mouths and looking away from each other._

" _Jason, why did you run away?" Bruce asked. He reached out and caught Jason's chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing Jason's teal eyes to come up and meet his piercing blue gaze._

" _You'll think it's stupid," Jason said, fisting the scratchy bed sheets._

" _No, I won't. But I think I deserve some answers. One minute you were there, the next you were gone," Bruce sighed. "You really scared me, Jason."_

 _The boy scoffed. "You're not afraid of anything. You're…" He trailed off. "You know."_

" _I may not seem afraid at night," Jason caught the unspoken 'as Batman', "But I was terrified that night when you vanished. I was terrified when I saw you surrounded by those thugs, still on the ground, when you disappeared into the water. I was terrified when you weren't breathing."_

 _Jason could feel his face redden in shame and he pulled away harshly, closing his eyes and putting all his willpower into stopping the tears he knew were coming._

" _Jason…"_

" _I heard you, okay!" The boy snapped, folding his arms across his chest in a movement that was too defensive to be angry._

 _Bruce blinked at the boy. Once. Twice. Then he made a face. "What do you mean?"_

" _I heard you talking to Alfred. You said you… You weren't my father."_

" _Well… I'm not," Bruce replied._

 _Jason flinched as though he'd been struck. There was an overwhelming sadness that took hold of the boy and Jason's eyes glittered with unshed tears. He stopped trying to hold them back and suddenly it was like a dam had burst. Jason released a low, mournful sound and tried to curl as far away from Bruce as possible on the small hospital bed, but Bruce was right there with a hand on the boy's shoulder, pulling him back._

" _No! That's, I mean…" Bruce sighed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, drawing them closer than before. "Jason, I don't want to presume to take the place of your father. I don't want to push that on you. With Dick I…" He trailed off at the sour look Jason gave him at the mention of his elder brother._

 _Bruce shook his head. "Jason, a son is not always_ born _of his father, and I love you like my own blood. I just know your past, I know you don't have the best track record with fathers. I don't want to dredge that up by becoming the one thing you don't want me to be. A parent."_

 _Jason sniffled, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his cheek against them. "What if I want that?" He asked in a voice so low, Bruce had to strain to hear him._

" _Want what?"_

" _You? To have a parent again, I guess?"_

 _Bruce lowered his eyes. When he looked back up, Jason's eyes were shining with tears and, to his surprise, so were his own. "I think we can work something out, son."_

 _With those words, the spell was broken – Jason launched himself at the older man, holding on tight and pressing his face into the crook of Bruce's neck. Bruce returned the embrace just as tightly, though he was careful not to jar him._

" _Thank you for saving my life," Jason said after a moment, his voice far raspier than it should be. The words themselves were spoken with no small amount of reverence – and Bruce knew that Jason wasn't just talking about his near-drowning. The fear was still there in the boy's voice, in his heart, and Bruce tightened his grip._

" _It's going to be alright, son." Bruce said quietly into the boy's hair. "It's all going to be alright."_

Jason woke with the echoes of those words in his mind, like surfacing after a long time without air. He gasped, coughed, and then curled in on himself as the bone-deep agony splintered his psyche. It had become habitual to stay closed off, reign himself in, until he could think coherently again. These days, it had become progressively more difficult to come back to himself, especially as they had waited longer and longer between doses – testing his limits even as he went mad.

The blackouts were lasting for longer periods, only waking when the pain started, or perhaps when the pain became too overriding. He felt more than saw the blood pooling around him, as his fingers slid through crimson slickness, and it all made him gag uncontrollably. His stomach was in knots, ready to upheave anything that came down, but Jason couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten. He knew he was in his cell, could feel his hair stand on end, even if he didn't remember getting there.

His eyes snapped open at the thought, great big blue-green orbs glowing in the half light. _Bruce_ , he thought. He felt the tsunami of emotion rolling through him, washing over him, and he released a breath of air as it tore away at his heart. The pace of his heart picked up, like a galloping horse and he tilted his head as he heard the subtle noise of the cave wall being worked away at.

"Jason?"

 _NO_ , his mind screamed. This had to be another nightmare, another hallucination. Because if that voice was _here_ , that meant… God, what had he done? Jason could feel a silent tear track down his face, like the tidal wave had finally hit, like the dam was leaking at the edges. _No,_ his mind repeated.

"Jason, don't you dare ignore us now, not after everything."

 _Tim_.

"Little Wing, please, just let us know you can hear us."

 _Dick._

"Jason!"

 _Bruce._

More tears escaped until Jason was sobbing softly behind the weight of water in his chest. He knew this was his fault, that his former family would suffer now because of him. The very thought made rage, white-hot and obliterating, filter through his veins, setting the water to a boil.

Jason Todd had never been a quitter, and he wasn't about to start now.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Jason pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the voices of his family calling his name, ignoring the flakes of dried blood as his flesh moved beneath it. He stared at the jagged cave wall before him, knowing that the doctors would return momentarily to inject him once again with the Lazarus Serum. His eyes slid closed and he took a deep breath.

"Do you remember what you said to me all those years ago, after I woke up in the hospital in Miami?" He said, very quietly.

"I do. But Jason-"

"Well, just remember what you said." Jason closed his eyes. "It's all in the blood. In the blood. In the blood."

And then he started to punch the wall.

There was a stunted thud as his flesh hit the wall, but Jason just wound back up and hit the wall again.

And again.

And _again_.

He kept at it, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm with each thud. The spray of blood when his knuckles tore. He kept going until his bones crunched and he physically could not continue.

And then he waited.

Tim watched in abject horror as his brother, the one he'd become closest with in the past year, tore himself apart. He could see a sheen of sweat covering his brother's exposed back, dripping down his nose, clinging to his fevered red cheeks. He looked sick, trembling only slightly between hits as Jason wheeled back, punching the wall like it had insulted his mother. He paused for only a moment to yell at the older boy, pleading with him to stop, but it did nothing to slow Jason's pace. He could hear a soft crack as the knuckles to Jason's right hand tore open. He'd watched Jason long enough to know that he could hear them, could tell by the subtle shift in his tactics whenever Dick or Bruce called his name. Jason and Tim both had the personality of cats when it suited them, but Jason took it to a new level at times. Tim could remember when Jason would pointedly ignore a question, like a cat disregarding you when you called its name. It was a special kind of annoyance to _know_ unequivocally that someone had heard you, and yet receive no answer. Tim could see by the minute reactions Jason was giving off that he'd heard his father, his brothers, calling his name.

And yet he was ignoring them.

To punch a wall.

Tim cursed under his breath, abandoning his efforts to draw Jason's attention from his self-mutilation. And then he was digging at the wall, rushing to get through the rock standing between him and his brother. He didn't even notice when the Batarang ripped into his fingers and drew blood, his entire being was focused on _getting to Jason_. He cried out in frustration, working harder as he heard Bruce and Dick screaming for help, trying without hope to get Jason to stop.

Jason just stared straight ahead, not even grunting as an unsettling _thud, thud, thud_ echoed from his cell. It was a macabre parallel to their father's actions at seeing Jason.

Then, just as suddenly as the episode had started, it stopped. Jason sat abruptly, curling into a small ball opposite of the wall he'd been hitting, clutching his ruined hand to his chest. His eyes were unblinking, blank, _dead_ , as he stared straight ahead, rocking absently back and forth.

Blood dripped down the walls, hit the pool of water below.

"Jason?" Tim asked, tentative.

The older man didn't even blink.

A _snap-hiss_ rang out, and the door to the room slid open. A man and a woman, both wearing lab coats, rushed into the room. The woman held a silver tray which held three syringes on it. She set the tray down on a long gray table on the far end of the cavern before lifting a single syringe for inspection. Inside was a deep green liquid – almost as deep and vibrant as Damian's or Talia's eyes. She flicked the syringe twice before approaching the electrified glass of Jason's cell.

"He's broken," She remarked.

The way she said it, like Jason was simply a toy that had fallen apart in the hands of a three-year-old – not a living, breathing boy, made Tim's lip twitch into an angry scowl.

"Perhaps we were wrong about this one. We'll have to see if the master can still acquire the little one," The man said.

Bruce let out a roar in the cell next to Tim and he heard Dick curse venomously. Tim kept digging, growling in frustration at the slow work.

The glass slid open.

The woman set a single foot into the cell.

And then Jason was moving.

Tim only registered the motion because he'd been trained by the best. Or perhaps it was how much time Jason and he had spent together, learning one another. He'd seen the subtle shift of muscles, even if his mind hadn't caught up with what the older boy was doing until he was standing upright, flipping over the doctor, landing just behind her, and then wrenching her head to the left until a loud _crack_ echoed through the cave. The sound, the abrupt violence of the motion, made Tim flinch bodily. But Jason was still moving and in a flash, he was on the other side of the room, grasping the lab coat of the other doctor, pulling him back even as he'd almost reached the panel by the door.

"Please!" The man cried. "Please I –"

A loud _snap_ rang out as the doctor's neck was broken between Jason's fingers.

"Jason!" Bruce screamed, and Tim heard the glass shake when Bruce hit it.

But Jason wasn't listening, was still moving, dragging the man behind him and using the doctor's limp finger to open the door.

He didn't look back or hesitate as he walked away, melding into the darkness like the bat he was.

 **Ouch. Poor Jason. Oh wow, looks like the fluff didn't make it into this chapter. Sorry ya'll. This stuff needed to happen first ( _)**

 **Drop a review if you liked this!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Wow. Uh. Hi. Haha. It's been a while now, hasn't it. Oops! Sorry everyone, it's been crazy hectic here in Florida after Irma and the myriad storms that have been flooding the Island since. Working at a clinic kind of sucks when everyone needs help! Plus power being out for an extended period of time sucks in 90 degree weather and blah blah blah – sorry this is so late! But here it is! What should be the penultimate chapter of this fic. (also sorry this is unbeta'd) Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 14: The Enemy Within**

The young man watched as the fire roared and crackled, feasting on the open ground before and around it. It was an unnatural flame, far brighter than it should be in the midafternoon sun, yet the heat emanating off it was unmistakable, forcing a tremor to echo in his bones. The familiarity of the event left his aching for more, and he sat down heavily on the frosty ground just to escape what was surely to be a heated moment. There on the ground, he adjusted his baseball cap, running his fingers through bright orange waves of hair.

He glanced around, his hand trailing over vibrant green grass – vibrant in a way it shouldn't be considering the temperature outside. The grounds were immaculate, even the trees which were dying with the onset of winter were well maintained like the rest of the place. And "place" was an understatement if ever there was one. It didn't quite exemplify the _size_ of the damn place – likely more than five to eight acres of property neatly lined with a high cement fence with wrought iron finishes to bar all but the most determined outsider. And that was only the lead up to the most impressive feature to the property: the manor itself.

Wayne Manor was an impressive three stories tall, a mixture of gothic architecture and modern luxury alike. It was built on a hill, where the expansive stone driveway led to a massive garage that no doubt held more than ten ultra-luxury cars and SUVs. This, which led directly upward to the manor proper via a winding staircase lined with expensive-looking and exotic plants and shrubbery. The doorway, an imposing and medieval depiction of glass and iron, had the potential to intimidate even the most affluent of society. Scaffolding and towers reached for the sky, seemed to darken the world rather than provide shade in the middle of an overcast day. Glass windows stretched the length of some rooms, whereas others had only one or two windows with drawn heavy curtains. All in all, the place was more like a modern-day castle than an ultra-rich playboy's playground. It made Oliver's three-billion-dollar penthouse look like a glorified bachelor pad. More than that, the manor lent weight to the idea that there was more to Gotham's resident billionaire than met the eye.

It was impossible to tell that there had been a fire here not twenty-four hours earlier.

"I think that's enough, Kori."

The alien spared only a single glance in his direction before loosing a terrifying battle cry and smashing her fist into the ground, now soft and pliant from the heat. "Why were we not told sooner?" Her wrath turned fully against him, and he shrank from that fiery gaze.

"I don't know."

"X'hal." She spat, her feet finally touching the ground. The radiating waves of her outrage slowly cooled, though she still melted the snow as it began to fall around her. "I should have been here."

"He said he needed time," Roy said quietly, "We gave him time."

"And now he is missing!"

"And now, he's missing."

Roy looked away, burying his face in his palms and squeezing his temples. They'd flown in only a few short hours before, only to be left on the lawn by an old man, the one that Jason had once called his grandfather. Alfred, Roy's mind supplied. Alfred had invited them here, had asked them for their help in finding not only the wayward bird, but the whole family as well. The old man returned not long after, carrying a pot of tea and three cups.

"Excuse the surroundings. I'm afraid the manor is in quite the state of disrepair," He said. The fire, as he'd said, had done some damage to the manor before the backup sprinkler system had kicked in. The water damage, combined with the scorch marks, left an ugly picture on the inside. "Repairs are already underway, but I'm afraid I must insist that you remain outside for the time being. You two are not exactly…" He paused, lifting one delicate eyebrow. "incognito."

That explained the need to stay out in the cold.

But Starfire wasn't exactly the master of subtlety anyway.

"Fair enough," Roy said, taking the teacup when it was extended to him. "So, any leads on Jason?"

Kori landed a few feet away, taking her own cup between two hands. Roy smiled when steam rose between her fingers, the tea boiling from the heat of her body.

"I have Master Jason's location, yes."

Roy stood quickly, only just avoiding the hot tea splashing out of his teacup. "Then what are we waiting for?!"

The old man rocked back on his feet, looking uncomfortable. "I'm afraid that it is a bit awkward, but-"

"Where is he!?"

The sound of a booming voice drew their attention from the old man to the newest arrivals to Wayne Manor.

Roy had heard rumors about these two, had heard stories about their escapades whenever Jaybird had deigned to talk about them. They were certainly a sight to behold. The redhead was muscular, her uniform a glittering black with highlights of crimson. She was held aloft by the strong arms of a rather pale version of Superman. This was the clone then, the reproduction named Bizarro, a simpleton with a heart of gold and an instant friend to the likes of one Jason Todd. The super clone had apparently undergone some sort of transformation – and recently too, if Roy's own reports had been even halfway accurate – for he had a look of pure venom on his features now, eyes searching the grounds of Wayne Manor for any sign of their lost friend.

The Amazonian – Artemis, if Roy recalled – landed but a moment later, the shockwaves absorbing into the frozen ground. She scowled at the three of them, her green eyes glittering dangerously. "Is this supposed to be a joke?" She asked incredulously, one ginger brow raised as she stood up.

"Xha'l," Kori whispered from beside him.

"Uh. Please to meet you, I'm –"

"Unimportant. Probably useless," Artemis cut him off. "I have only one purpose. To find My friend." Her eyes narrowed menacingly, "Tell me what you know of his disappearance."

"…Right." Roy said, fully intending to move on and get to the _disappearing_ part.

"You will show us respect, Amazon." Kori's voice held a measure of the fire inside, of the glow in her fists. "We have cared for him for much longer than you."

The larger woman snorted rudely, eyes trailing up and down her body. "And that is why he was abandoned? Facing Black mask alone? Where were you when he needed you, _Princess_."

The light in Kori's fists grew brighter, and she raised her arm in outrage, preparing for a fight. "You-"

"That's quite enough." A delicate cough interrupted the brewing storm. Alfred stepped between the two groups, fists lightly clenched at his sides. "None of this is helping master Jason. I have his location, but we must work together if we are to free him and the others."

"Others?" Roy asked.

"Indeed. It would seem that Master Jason was not the only one stolen out from under our noses. His father and brothers have been taken as well." The old man paused, catching an early snowflake on the tip of his gloved finger. "If we delay any further, I'm afraid it will be too late."

At that, both teams bowed their heads, animosity momentarily forgotten.

But only momentarily.

"Give me the coordinates and I will bring him safely away," Artemis said.

"We will all go, we will _all_ bring them back," The old man replied, straightening his collar. "Master Jason has been through a terrible ordeal and he will need each of you now more than ever – despite your growing need to tear one another apart." His eyes lifted from the ground, coming to rest on each of them in turn. "You will cease this useless fighting and help me find my grandson or, so help me, I will ensure that you never see him again." The last was spoken with a deadly edge that bellied the fragile appearance of the old man, it spoke of old wounds and battlefields long gone.

"You…" Artemis let out a long huff of air, her face softening minutely, "… Are right." She turned back to Kori, and more of the coldness leached from her tone. "I apologize. I must seem ungrateful, but nothing could be farther from the truth. You are well respected among my people."

At last, the fire that had been building in Kori's palms quieted, and then died out. The princess of Tamaran shook herself. "I have heard of your exploits, they are… impressive."

Artemis nodded to her, a grudging respect budding between the two warrior women.

"right then," Alfred rasped, turning back toward Wayne Manor. "If you will follow me, we should get going."

Artemis and Kori began to speak quietly, side-by-side as they followed the butler, while Roy fell into step beside the mountain of a man Jason now called friend.

"I is Bizarro," The clone chimed in.

Roy smiled, genuine and unfaltering as he reached out his hand, "Season's greetings, from one outlaw to another."

It took a while, but eventually they heard it.

Screams. Followed quickly by the thunder of bullets striking the cave walls. Tim cursed, drilling through the wall at a quicker pace.

"Damnit, Jason," Dick said. "Damnit, damnit."

"How's that digging going, Tim?"

"Almost through," He said, just as the rock fell away and light shone through the small hole. "Eureka!" He all but screamed.

There was a great, earth shattering rumble that echoed off the cave walls before dirt and debris fell from the ceiling of the cave – giant stalagmites fell and tore at the ground as they landed. Tim gasped, falling back away from the electrical field before him.

At first, the blur of red and blue filled him with hope, had him uttering "Superman!" before he stopped short. It wasn't Clark Kent, the closest thing Bruce had ever had to a best friend, no. This was his clone –

The outlaws had arrived.

He'd never met Artemis in the flesh, but he'd heard tales of her clashing with the Amazon Princess Diana herself. She was a sight to behold alongside the imposing figure of Koriand'r, the Tamaranian Princess. Their hair was fiery, bright as a star in the darkness of the caves. Kori had fire in her palms, facing downward, ready to destroy any enemy that appeared, while Artemis wielded her battle ax, Mistress, in a firm stance.

And then there was Roy Harper.

Harper may have been an impressive shot, a warrior who rivaled Oliver Queen and sharpshooters around the globe, but to Tim – the boy who had watched him grow up alongside first his eldest brother, and then Jason – Roy would always be a goofy boy with more bark than bite. Perhaps even more goofy now with that ridiculous baseball cap.

"Kori!?" He heard his brother exclaim. The alien princess turned to him immediately, her brow smoothing out as their eyes met.

"Dick! Thank X'hal, I thought we'd never get through these cave walls."

"Never say never, pudding," Roy oozed. "Now, how do we get you out of those cells. I'm sure it'll be as simple a rerouting the power away from the –" He started for the control panel on the other side of the room, only to stop short and loose a quiet gasp when Artemis's battleax soared straight into the panel. Electricity arced through the room and the panel fumed with smoke, spitting and hissing in its death throes.

The electronic field holding them in blinked once, twice, and then was gone. Tim batted at where the screen had been, finding only empty air. "Alright then. That's one way to do it."

"You are injured," The clone said, sidling forward and reaching out to help.

Bruce, for all his wonderful qualities as a socialite, had never been one to accept help – particularly when in his nightly persona – and stepped back, shaking his head and raising his hands defensively. "There's no time. Jason is in danger."

"He's _been_ in danger," The Amazonian said. "No thanks to you and yours. We've been looking for him for months now, would it have killed you to give us a call?"

"I saw no reason to alarm you."

"Alarm us!?" Kori spun around from where she had been speaking quietly with Dick. "Jason has faced so much outside of your city, yet only when he returns is he in any true danger."

The two red-heads stood shoulder to shoulder now. Whatever their history, no matter that they did not particularly care for one another, this goal united them.

And now, the full force of their righteous fury was turned onto his father.

Enraptured in the brewing storm ahead of him, Dick only just caught the movement at his periphery. He turned just in time to catch a bag full of his gear.

"That's enough for now, ladies." Roy said, his voice a soothing balm over the roar of their tempers. "Let's not forget that we're here with a mission. You know, get in, grab Jaybird, get out?"

"Roy's right," Came Tim's calm voice. He handed Bruce his utility belt after strapping on his own. "We don't have time for the blame game. After, we can work out whose fault it was. For now, we need to stand united.

"Roy, can you lock onto our location with one of your beacons?"

Roy nodded, casting a wary glance back up at the ship. "But-"

"No buts. We may need a quick exit, keep that thing ready for reentry while the rest of us get Jason." Roy grumbled something about not having any fun as he shot off a line, following the order as though it had come from Oliver Queen. The group turned as one after his departure, listening to low grunts of pain and the deafening boom of gunfire in the distance.

Bruce was the first to shoot off in the direction of the battle, followed closely by Dick and then the outlaws. Tim paused momentarily in the doorway, turning back to the syringes on the floor. The verdant fluid within made his stomach twinge strangely, but it wasn't enough to stop him from reaching down and capturing the last two doses of the Lazarus Serum before rushing after his family.

Madness crawled through his brain like a swarm of ants. He could feel the whisper of a thousand tiny legs through his whole being. They hushed his frazzled nerves, and held him solidly in a wake of crimson. This madness was different than the one he had known before. A single dip in the Pit was but a single flame held up to the inferno that was the full force of repeated exposure to even a diluted sample. It tainted his very being, consumed him from within and without. Agony was his companion, the only one he'd had in over six months. Coming back into contact with his family, donning the mask of Havoc, had been like a splash of ice cold water – the taste of freedom bittersweet on his tongue – shaking him from his stupor.

Now, though, he reveled in the sound of necks snapping and blood dripping.

He saw the guards who had repeatedly broken his bones.

He broke some of theirs before killing them.

He saw the men who assaulted him, brought him low until he screamed for hours.

He elicited long, wailing cries before he ended them.

He saw Ubu, the bane of his existence in this place.

He murdered him slowly, using his own weapons so that he died of asphyxiation.

When it was done, Jason collapsed to his knees in the center of the chamber where he had been brutalized endlessly. There was sticky blood on his hands and he rubbed them against the drenched cloth of his sweatpants, back and forth until the skin was raw. He felt like he could finally breath, like he'd only just surfaced after a near-drowning – _like when Bruce had dragged him from the ocean, cradling him close_ – only to find himself adrift without so much as a piece of flotsam. Thinking back, he couldn't remember actively making the decision to kill his tormentors. The flashes that came to him were of the blood that now coated his hands, but nothing more.

"What did I do?" He whispered, palms shaking with the realization of where he was, who he had abandoned in order to kill all of these people. The very thought left him drained, panting and tired far beyond his years.

How many had he just slain?

A strangled sound escaped his throat, something that was not entirely human in nature. "What have I done?"

"My dear boy, you've just proven your mettle." The voice reached for him, like the tendrils of a water-starved plant, tickling at the edges of his consciousness.

It was Ra's, he knew it without even needing to glance upward. The man was everywhere in this place. Jason could only regret that his rampage had ended before he'd had the chance to kill this evil bastard. His muscles were still trembling with exhaustion, each scar added to his body was alight with the agony from their infliction. He couldn't have fought back now, not even if he'd wanted to.

And he didn't.

Claw like fingernails dug into the flesh under Jason's chin, forcing him to meet the ancient's gaze. "Your father will not forgive you for this, child. Look around, look at the bodies. What do you think he'll do to you?" The man smiled. "Perhaps a cell in Arkham?"

He hadn't meant to listen to the words. Hadn't meant to picture the walls of the asylum, Harleen Quinzel, or even the cackle of his murderer as it rose in the back of his mind. Fear rose in his chest, swift as a striking viper, winding its way around his throat. "He wouldn't," Jason gasped.

But he would.

Bruce had done so in the past, the first time that Jason had come back and the stench of the pit had clung to him even after years apart. Now? Good Lord, the Pit had reached deep into his very soul, torn it asunder, torn _him_ asunder.

And Jason was scared.

Terrified. He felt his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage. He couldn't go there, couldn't face that pasty-faced monster now after so long in pain and misery. He'd rather...

He'd rather…

"I think we both know what the detective is capable of," Ra's' voice crept up on him, startled him from thoughts of clowns and the stench of death and the flash of a crowbar through the air. "Come with me, child."

He knew logically that he didn't have a choice. The League of Assassins had returned, full force – Jason's rampage had hardly put a dent in their numbers – and now shadows filled the cavern, blades drawn and shining in the half light. In front of him, Jason saw a hand. It was clawed and ugly and reaching, but a part of him wanted to take it, to let it guide him away from the clown and the memories that were still so salient in his mind.

But the other part, the part that sounded like Bruce, screamed at him to run away or to strike at the offending gesture.

His muscles were still too weak to put up much of a fight, but he wanted to spit at this man. The though had barely entered his mind when he did just that, releasing a glob of blood so that it landed in the man's outstretched palm.

He knew he'd pay for the offense, knew it even before Ra's withdrew. He smiled, a broken, malleable thing. He hoped it would be quick.

"Jason!" His father cried out, desperation and something else – fear? – mingled in the intonation of the word and Jason's head shot to the left.

"Dad?" he'd meant the word to sound strong, but it came out as more of a whimper through his chattering teeth. Anxiety clawed at his stomach mercilessly, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man who was rapidly changing from man to monster in his eyes. Ra's' flesh had begun to rot, hanging loosely from his bones like a long-buried ghost. His teeth, which had seemed pristine not a moment before, were now yellowed with age. The once-dark hair was now gray as ash and brittle like straw. But it was his eyes that struck Jason the most. They were devoid of any color, like the life had simply slipped from his bones. The green of his clothes now stood in stark contrast to his feature.

He didn't appear human.

Jason sank backward, drawing himself away from the creature even as it drew the blade at its waste.

"Useless!" it screamed in fury as the blade swung toward him.

He only stared as it came. Gasped when it parted his flesh. Closed his eyes when it pinned him to the ground.

And surrendered to oblivion when the darkness closed in.

 **Um. Did I say this fic was gonna hurt? I did? Well. There you have it. One more to go! I promise I won't take a long ass hiatus this time. Maybe. See y'all later!**


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